


Fade To Black

by twistedthicket1



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action, BAMF John, Baskerville - Freeform, Complete, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Human Experimentation, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, M/M, PTSD, Romance, Smut, Things are not as they seem, Violence, impled self harm, split personality disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-14 02:03:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 93,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedthicket1/pseuds/twistedthicket1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson believes one day he'll just fade.</p><p>That he'll drown in the black spaces of his mind, and that one day he will no longer exist. It's always been like this, the dark spots marking out moments in his life he can't remember. Where for just a moment he's someone else. Having a Dissociative identity disorder, he can't even be entirely sure he's really who he says he is.<br/>Then he meets Sherlock Holmes. A brilliant detective who when he looks at you can read your entire life story. John is immediately fascinated and afraid, half-wondering if maybe Sherlock can see the other personalities in him and half terrified of the thought of him finding out. Becoming his flatmate seems at once to be a wonderful and horrible idea. Yet as John's Blackouts become more and more severe and his other personalities begin to truly awaken  and show themselves with Sherlock's help, the two soon discover that sometimes even the kindest person can harbour a demon best left untouched inside of them.<br/>Because not all of John's other personalities play nicely. and some may be hiding secrets best left undisturbed.....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授权翻译】Fade To Black](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5982175) by [amberjune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberjune/pseuds/amberjune), [twistedthicket1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedthicket1/pseuds/twistedthicket1)



> soooo I got this idea a while back. It's been done before, but I have a few twists in mind that I can't get out of my head and now I must write! 
> 
> Let me know what you think! thanks! <3

 

 

 

John can't exactly remember when it all began. It's difficult sometimes, trying to recall his memories. Painful flashes of colour and grey, of light and dark.

Part of his difficulty stems from it being that not all of his memories are his own. Disconcerting black spots, they litter his existence and leave him wondering. Like a target littered with bullet holes, they bleed into his mind and paint over events in time. He cannot remember a time any longer when those dark spots didn't exist, because they started when he was very young. They followed him from childhood, when his family when taken from him in a horrific car crash that is blotted out by the black and inky darkness and he was left an orphan.

 

They all told him it was a terrible accident, caused by rain and heavy traffic. John recalls nothing. Not a single breath of a honking horn, and not the screech of the brakes as his Father slammed down on them, sending the car into a skid and then a flip. He doesn't know if he cried or not then, but by the time he does remember waking up in the hospital, he no longer had any tears to shed. It felt like he had sobbed for an eternity, and yet he cannot recall a single drop hitting his cheek.

His chance to be hysterical was stolen from him, leaving only a numb and aching grief.

 

Then the nightmares came for him.

 

Clawing their way into his head and poisoning his dreams. Leaving him screaming and thrashing in the dark as nurses tried to hold his tiny shuddering body still. John remembers that, the feeling of waking up and not knowing where he was or  _who_ he was, of looking blankly at the hospital ceiling and wondering why on earth he was screaming.

Then he would remember, and the screeches would become louder still.

 

At first they disregarded it as PTSD.

Reasonable.

Sane.

His nightmares were the only proof to John besides the cuts and bruises littering his skin that he was in the accident at all. They plagued him, vague images that made no sense. A screaming face, wide blue eyes as everything was tilted sideways. The vaguest of dreams.

The dark stalked him when he joined the army.The black spots earned him a title, “Three continents Watson” when he couldn't recall the faces of his apparently numerous lovers.

Worse they erased what exactly happened so that he cannot recall how he wound up in a hospital bed, layers of bandages wrapped about his shoulder and bearing a psychosomatic limp that would bring his military service to a harsh end.

 

When he was younger, he called them _'Sleep Moments',_ as if his childlike mind thought he just needed a good nap to recharge.

Now he knew them for what they really were, as the orphanage that raised him brought him to a therapist after he apparently called himself by another name and had no recollection of how he came to their care.

Dissociative identity disorder.

The shadowy monster of his nightmares now had a name.

Something to grasp onto. He was not just John. He was many others. And he spent many a long night staring into the mirror of his little room unblinkingly, trying to see a trace of someone else in the depths of his deep blue irises and ash-blonde hair. Wondering what the other versions of him were like.

Questioning if they missed their big sister Harry as much as he did, or if they were even aware of what they had lost.

Maybe it was this curiosity that got him into medicine.

He began to study hard and late into the night, trying to find an answer for as much his own problems as the problems of others. He poured over books and heavy medical documents, putting his mind to better use than just sitting and wondering. Waiting for things was useless after all. As he got older, he wondered if all of the other versions were complete personalities, or if they had separate functions. Base duties. His therapist Sarah told him that often the other personalities would have been created under extreme levels of stress. She also told him that despite her attempts at hypnosis to try and bring some of the other personalities out, he had 'trust issues' and couldn't fully relax under her control.

It was to be expected though, because John didn't even really trust himself. Or at least, he did not trust the other versions of himself. It was especially disconcerting as he got older.

He would wake up in someone else's bed having no recollection of ever talking to the woman (and sometimes on rare occasions, man) that lay next to him, yet it would be obvious what had gone on the night before. And though he had lied his way into the army and managed to convince them that he was stable, he still woke up with half of his shoulder torn apart and no recollection of the bullet that had entered him. That had been the first time he had ever been truly frightened of a black spot, because there had been the shrieking sound of sirens, and then only inky darkness.

For just a moment, John's mind had blanked and his last thought in that dusty, hot desert before he thought he died was

_Please God, let me live._

Even though John wasn't really religious. Even though he didn't feel like he had the right to beg to God for anything. For the first time, he considers taking the Browning that had served him so well over the years and turning it against himself, pressing it to his forehead in the dingy place he's rented and his fingers closing about the trigger.

Safety off.

Just like it was with so many of the people he had shot. The blood sometimes comes to him in his dreams, spattered illusions in which he is himself and yet not. Haunting him because he can't properly feel sadness over them, because he's not the one who killed them. Yet he is. That's what brings him to tears in the darkness, not the guilt. Not the sadness. The fact that he's still responsible, and he can't let go of that responsibility because it's still his hand that closed about the trigger.

He tries.

Tries so hard to blow his brains out that the muzzle of his gun trembles cold against his temple and he's left gasping and sobbing quietly into his free hand. And in the end the darkness comes and when he wakes up again all the bullets have disappeared from their cartridge. Vanished as if they never existed in the first place. Apparently, his _Others_ ' just thought it was the wrong day to die.

 

 

*****

 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John blinks, blue eyes widening then narrowing as his grip adjusts on his cane. For a moment his thoughts turn, wondering if maybe he's met this strange man with dark curls and snow-white skin before. It's happened once or twice, when someone recognized him from a place he can't recall ever visiting.

Called out a name he didn't associate with himself.

Mike Stamford mistook the look on his face for confusion, smirking just a little as his beady eyes glinted with mirth.

John notes the way the man before him is seated, hoping to glean some kind of information as to where he might have seen him before. What he sees is an odd countenance. The man doesn't look like a soldier, but then again he doesn't really look like a scientist either, despite the fact that he's bent over a microscope. John's medical degree puts him around his thirties, the younger end of it. That makes it unlikely that he knew him in military service. Not to mention the paper-white pallor. Almost translucent under the sick medical lights. High and hollow-looking cheekbones held pale eyes of ever-shifting colour, unblinking in nature as they glanced over at him.

The barest of glimpses, but it gives a good view of his obviously attractive features.

His coat is of deepest black and mysterious, the kind you might see in a bad detective film. It trails to his ankles, sweeping outwards in cape-like fashion.

Dark.

Dangerous.

_Shit._

He _really_ hoped he hasn't slept with this man.

He also really wished he hadn't offered him his phone.

The souring ripple of emotions leaves a metallic taste of panic on his lips, and he croaks out a distressed

“I'm sorry.....H-How did you-”

The man snorts as if the question is horribly dull in nature, cutting him off as deft fingers twirling the modules of the microscope even as his dark baritone rumbles.

“Ah, Molly. Coffee, thank you.”

John twists about and sees a rather high-strung looking girl smiling nervously at the doorway, her hair tied away from her face in a severe-looking ponytail. What the soldier didn't notice is in that instant Sherlock risked a peek up at the new man standing before him, eyes narrowing in silent calculation.

**_…..Odd._ **

 

He bites the inside of his cheek in thought.

 

In truth John doesn't really know why he's here. When Mike Stamford had called out to him on the street, he had cursed his limp because it meant he couldn't even outrun the man's chubby legs and make it to a cab. He had been forced to smile in a strained way as he was accosted into having a cup of coffee on a bench, his fingers curling and uncurling his hands against his knee as he his old army buddy chatted at him rather than with him. Since his discharge from battle John didn't really talk much. It felt strange now when he opened his lips and murmured sarcastically

“Who would want me for a flatmate?”

Somehow, he had ended up here.

Conversing with someone he wasn't sure if he actually knew, and beginning to sweat because he had no idea what the relationship might be between them if he did know him.

He watches closely as the man before him seems to thoughtlessly insult the woman before him without even hesitating, taking a sip of the coffee and lips turning downwards at it's taste. He notes how the man seems to be rude if not downright arrogant, how those bow lips heartlessly pierce the people around him with callous observations and comments.

Cold would be a proper word.

Possibly harsh.

When he looks at you, he gave the impression that he knew everything about you, and yet nothing at all. Like he could see facts but not the person, see the life but not necessarily the experience. John found himself wondering when those eyes landed on him just what Sherlock saw.

If he saw John Watson, or someone else.

If he was really the true personality, or if he was just another shade.

An illusion. Would he shatter and turn to dust one day?

Would someone else take over his body, become John Watson?

He could never be sure, and he could trust no one with these private fears. Yet he feels like in that moment, that if anyone could tell him, it would be this man. It's what causes him to listen. To pay attention for a change to what is being said to him. To realize that Sherlock is perhaps brilliant, if not mad. He learns that even though he doesn't know Sherlock, he might as well be his closest friend.

Because the man can look at a person and see their deepest secrets, their desires and their wants.

Their habits.

It's frightening, but it's at the same time fascinating.

Because despite the odds, John soon also recognizes that Sherlock doesn't know.

John is enough his own person that the Detective doesn't even _suggest_ he might not be real. Does not look at him and see a freak, like his therapist did. Like people looked at him when they found out.

John feels....

John feels normal.

Painfully ordinary next to Sherlock Holmes.

It's blissfully relieving.

 

 

 

Which is why he doesn't tell Sherlock his secret, even when the man asks if he wants to share a flat with him.

Or rather, demands.

He is mute to his private struggles, because in the end he found himself liking the strange and arrogant man who flipped his dark coat collar up against the wind and clicked his tongue in greeting.

He could almost _trust_ him, if John ever trusted anyone.

And he privately feels that soon, soon will come the time that he will fade. He is searching for a final resting place, not a permanent residence. A gravestone, not a gift.

What better place to disappear than under the wing of someone who would recognize when he no longer was himself?

What better way to spend his last days than to partake in something uncertain, something exciting and laced with danger and adventure?

Yes.

He would tell Sherlock, but not now.

He barely knows him.....

Not now......

 

After all, John is a soldier. He knows how to keep himself solid, strong.

There is that at least.

He hopes that if he ever becomes swallowed by the _Others_ , that trait at least will remain.

His jaw tightens, and Sherlock has left him even after telling him the address of the flat he wants to check out.

If nothing else, let his strength remain.


	2. Awakening Of A Soldier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *wipes brow* first chapter. Here we go. :) the beginning of this story and the introduction to the first personality.
> 
> Please don't hesitate to tell me what you think and if you have any constructive criticisms lemme know!
> 
> Kudos are welcome too of course ;P
> 
> Thanks a bunch~!

 

 

Sherlock, though it was true that he did not see John's biggest secret, did see _something._

He couldn't help it after all, because _everyone_ could be read even if only just a little. John had a very expressive, open face. Almost sleepy-eyed at times, but he could tell that was more his facial features than his demeanour.

No.

 

Being an ex-soldier made you alert and aware, and even though it was well hidden by soft jumpers and a startlingly gentle smile, he could see those sharp blue eyes automatically mapping out exits and entrances.

Sherlock doubts John even realizes he does it.

 

Yet there is also more than just a soldier, hidden in that face.

He notes the phone.

Plain.

No engravings whatsoever.

Expensive, but scratched from second-hand use because someone as meticulous as John would not be one to leave an expensive thing like a phone in a pocket with keys and coins.

No.

A gift.

But not from a close relative.

 

In fact Sherlock couldn't see any indication that John had any family at all.

 

Maybe that was what made him impulsively suggest the idea of being flatmates.

 

Or maybe it was the glitter he saw in the depths of his eyes when he carelessly deduced him. His life.

His existence in this world.

Maybe it was because John Watson didn't tell him right away to “piss off”.

 

Whatever the reason, he found himself inexorably tempted to catalogue this strange doctor who just walked into the lab looking for a flatmate. His interest had been sparked, and so he begun the task of unravelling the particular puzzle that he found before him.

After all, that's all John was he was sure.

 

Just another puzzle.

 

*****

 

“All right, you have questions.”

 

John sat curled in the seat across from Sherlock in the cab, trying to figure out exactly how he had gotten to be sitting in a dark cab next to a man who just twirled and danced with the news of another homicide. He hadn't been planning to, at first. It just became something that happened. Undefinable. He was beginning to get the feeling that lots of things when it came to this man was indefinite and unidentifiable. Mysterious and vague.

 

Of course he had gotten that sense the moment he had entered the solid and cozy little flat known to him as _**221 B.**_ Upon walking in, he was still only half sure that Sherlock actually didn't know him. A part of him wondered if maybe the Detective was merely biding his time, that he would suddenly surprise him with a story about how they had met in a bar on a stormy night, like the beginning of some crappy romance novel. Then the landlady, Mrs. Hudson ( _Not your housekeeper dear_ ) had insinuated that they were _already_ a couple, and John had blushed and spluttered, stress leaving him tired and shaky so that he slumped into the chair with Union Jack pillow and trying to calm his spiking blood pressure. Sherlock had watched this entire exchange and then promptly pretended it didn't happen, rifling through papers and folders until Lestrade had found his way to the door in a cold sweat.

 

So, here they were.

“ _You have questions.”_

 

Sherlock had no idea how right he was. John blinked at the whizzing cars passing them by, hardly sure what he exactly wants to say. Well, that's not entirely true. He _wants_ to ask why a DI is asking a man who doesn't work with the police to solve a murder. He _wants_ to ask how Sherlock can look at a person and see their entire life like a road map laid out in front of him. He _wanted_ to know Sherlock Holmes, because those deep blue-green eyes are flickering at a mile a minute even now beside him, and he is overcome with a longing to know what thoughts are crossing his mind.

 

He runs his tongue over his lips in indecision, finally picking the one that would be the most important. Best just to be upfront about it, he supposed.

 

“Do I..... Have I met you before?”

 

Sherlock startles at the question, eyes roving over John once in a moment of scrutiny so intense that the Doctor finds his ears turn a little red from its touch. After a moment though it cools down to a low burning ember, and the Detective turns back to his phone, which seems to have become permanently attached to his hand. His fingers fly over the screen which illuminates his face in pale pallor, casting eerie shadows across his cheekbones.

 

“No. You haven't.” He says with utter certainty. John feels a knot of tension that had been tightening in his stomach since he met Sherlock loosen and disappear in relief. His eyes flutter closed for just an instant, thanking every and any deity he could remember off hand. He doesn't notice the way the man's eyes narrow at the slight motion, storing it away in confusion for later evaluation. When John opens his eyes again, he feels a little more relaxed. An almost shy smile crosses his features.

 

“Where are we going?”

 

Leaning into his hand with an almost bored expression, he answers promptly.

 

“Crime scene. Next.”

 

Clipped. Short. No real elaboration on that one. Okay. John takes a deep breath, a more loaded query coming to his lips.

 

“Who are you? What do you do?”

 

Sherlock's rumbling baritone sounds faintly amused. Sharp, silvery eyes flick back to him, pinning John in place with their intensity. One dark brow cocks itself upwards sardonically.

 

“What do you think?”

 

“I'd say.... Private Detective.....”

 

He trails off, blonde eyebrows lowering as he realizes that his answer can't possibly be correct. Sherlock has seen that expression before, but not quite so obvious on someone's face. John's features are extremely expressive, which _should_ make him easy to read. However, Sherlock is finding difficulty, like there is a missing piece he is unaware of. A deciding factor he can't grasp. Frowning slightly, he gently prompts the Doctor to continue, hoping to glean a hint.

“But....?”

 

“But the police don't go to Private Detectives.”

 

John finishes, folding his hands in his lap. Already stumped. It's funny, how quickly the Doctor gives up. Sherlock has to suppress a small smile as he fills in the gaps, shifting so he can get a better look outside his window. Not too far now.

 

“I'm a _Consulting_ Detective. Only one in the world, I invented the job.”

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“It means that when the Police are out of their depth- which is always- they consult me.”

 

John scoffs, eyebrows rising.

“The Police don't consult _amateurs._ ”

 

Right away, the blonde man is aware he's made a mistake. Sherlock turns to look at him, glaring with a surprisingly malicious smirk that almost begs to be challenged. Like a switch there's a predatory instinct in that stare, and John realizes he's unknowingly triggered a streak of pride in the Detective.

 

“When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said Afghanistan or Iraq. You looked surprised.”

 

Thinking back on it, John nods slowly. Confusion etches his face as tries to come up with a way that Sherlock could have known he had been in the military, or at war at all. Curious despite himself, he leaned forward slightly.

 

“Yes, how did you know?”

 

“I didn't know. I _saw._ ”

 

He breathes, and then launches into whip-like calculations that leave the soldier's mouth parted in shock.

“Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Barts - so Army doctor, _obvious_. Your face is tanned but there's no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but _not_ sunbathing. Your limp's bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand.

Like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic.

 

“That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, suntan - Afghanistan or Iraq.”

 

He finishes with a small grin of satisfaction, pleased at how entirely ruffled John looks. It's enough to push him to continue, impulsively thinking he can get some more clues if he gets him to enough of an unbalanced state. The soldier doesn't help, encouraging him by asking

 

“You said I had a therapist?”

 

“You've got a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapist. Then there's your phone. It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player. You're looking for a flat-share. You wouldn't waste money on this - it's a gift, then. Scratches. Not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat your one luxury item like this. So it's had a previous owner. However there's no engravings or discerning decorations on it so it's a little bit harder to guess where you got it from. I would normally say a relative, but there is not indication of it coming from someone particularly close. So maybe an aunt? She must love you if she's willing to pay for something so expensive-”

 

“It's not from a relative.”

John says sharply, suddenly cutting him off with stiff shoulders. He then bites his lip, hating at how forcefully the words came out and wincing as a flicker of his own reflection from that day comes unbidden to mind. Wide eyes, crusted blood from stitches on his head. Bruised knuckles and cheeks from nightmares and fighting.

The hollowness in his irises as he reached out, wondering vaguely when they were going to bring him home to his parents. Wondering when Harry would storm through the door, telling him off loudly like she always used to.

They never came for him.

 

Sherlock stops, eyes narrowing for a split second before going wide as he realizes the implication in the soldier's tone.

 

_Oh...._

 

_**Oh.** _

 

For a moment the cab is filled with awkward silence as both of them look away, John staring hard into the palms of his hands as they tighten in embarrassment. He can feel his cheeks burning, the pounding of his heart that always comes with admitting it. Like an open wound that is never fully healed, it bleeds at the strangest and most inconvenient of times. Leaves him feeling like the five year old child, screaming into the pillow of his hospital bed.

 

Sherlock curses mentally, because he realizes he's accidentally crossed a line he hadn't known existed. A social conduct, something he normally would scoff at. Something he doesn't understand. He doesn't comprehend it, but when he looks over at John he feels a strange twisting in his ribs. Pulling.

Yet just when he opens his mouth, the Doctor cuts him off with a strained smile.

 

“It's fine. I've been alone for a long time. It happened when I was only a kid....... The phone's actually from the Orphanage.... it was a present for my graduation from medical school....”

 

He trails off as he remembers that day so long ago in the past, and from the still set of his muscles even Sherlock can tell that it's most definitely _not_ fine. He ponders to himself vaguely if he should apologize, but before he can even make that effort John says, quieter this time

 

“That was amazing.”

 

The Detective stares at him, for a moment his thoughts going completely slack. Cut like puppet strings as he has to remind himself to respond.

 

“....You think so?”

 

“Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite..... extraordinary.....”

 

And John smiles, even if it's a little pained because Sherlock looks for a moment so vulnerable and shyly pleased at the compliment that he wonders if he's ever been told how brilliant he is before. After a moment though he regains his composure and blinks, turning again towards the safety of his phone screen to hide how much he wants to reach out and take John Watson apart, to see what could have happened in his funny little head to say something so entirely untrue but nonetheless pleasant.

 

“That's not what people normally say.”

“.....What do people normally say?”

 

He asks, and Sherlock's mouth quirks into a small grin, secretly relieved that he's been forgiven.

“.....Piss off...”

 

John laughs, a bright and airy sound that fills the dim back of the cab with light. The noise is so open, so childlike and warm that Sherlock is surprised it can come from someone with such sad eyes. In many ways John Watson looks like a man just waiting for his grave. His clothes are cheap and warm, not meant to last for a long time. He has the haunted gaze of a person being hunted by an unseen force, possibly nightmares of his past. When Sherlock sees him, his first impulse is to consider the fact that the Browning in the drawer of the man's desk shouldn't be left out in the open for him to use, for his own safety. Yet there are moments, brief flashes where the Detective sees that he is not completely broken. Scarred yes but not shattered. For some reason, he wants to see more of what John _could_ be, his _potential._

Call it a whim, but he wants to see more of those kinds of smiles.

More laughs like that.

 

He wants to erase the tired lines and dark circles that form like bruises under his eyes, because he's almost sure underneath them is something that glints like gold.

Under them is something _fascinating._

Something that he is impossibly drawn to.

Like a moth to a flame.

 

*****

 

“ _Pink!”_

 

Sherlock shouts up at John and Lestrade, gripping his curls and all but jumping up and down on the spot with impatience. Then, like a wound spring no longer able to stay in the same place he's off, lunging for the front door and nearly knocking Anderson to the ground in his haste. The sound of the hinges clicking shut are the last John's hears of him as for a moment he stands awkwardly, shuffling with his cane and dutifully avoiding Lestrade's gaze.

 

He began to wonder if this is what working with Sherlock Holmes would entail. Being left behind in strange places and expected to find his way back home without any help whatsoever.

 

_Bloody git._

 

John thinks. He sighs and begins to make his way down the steps, where no doubt Sally Donovan would be there to warn him against the dark Detective.

And knowing him, he wouldn't listen. Because John was an idiot sometimes, and he knew it.

 

In for a penny, in for a pound.

 

He wasn't about to bail out just when things got interesting.

 

*****

 

“Get into the car, Dr. Watson. I would make some sort of threat, but I’m sure your situation is quite clear to you.”

 

That's how John wound up in a sleek black car, sitting next to a very pretty but very mysterious woman who called herself Anthea, once again questioning his sanity.

 

At least, that's the last thing he remembers. Because his heart begins to pound and his mouth turns dry, and a shudder ripples over the Doctor's spine. The next thing he knows, darkness clouds his vision. John has just enough time to realize what's happening, and that there's no way to stop it. His last panicked thought has to do with the fact that he's in a moving _car_ , and that when he comes back there'll be no way of knowing exactly where he is. Then the blackness overtakes him, and John Watson is no longer John Watson.

 

His blue eyes close as if he's going to sleep, then open an instant later. His entire posture changes. His grip loosens on the cane, tremble in his left hand relaxing. His eyebrows draw together in a scowl as he turns to look about him, wondering exactly why _he's_ been called. Blue eyes dart about, military training kicking in. Locked doors. Possible hostage beside him, but probably armed. Cameras are likely, given the expense of the car. He flips through John's memories, frown running deeper in a very un-Johnlike way.

Yes.

Cameras are almost certain.

Kidnap situation.

Response: Escape.

 

 

Without looking away from her phone, Anthea smiles.

“Hello Daniel. That _is_ what you call yourself, right?”

 

The voice that comes from John's mouth no longer has his soft and reserved tones. It is harsh, with a light Scottish brogue that makes bell-like ripples in the darkness of the car. It is not even remotely fucking around as it says

 

“You have five seconds to tell me who you are or I'm going to get creative with the seatbelt and strangle you before the driver's even aware of what's going on.”

 

The woman's answering smile is cool.

Professional.

She pockets her phone in her skirt before calmly gesturing to her hip.

“You're free to try. But I have a taser on me, and something tells me you're smart enough to realize that if John woke up feeling like he just became scrambled eggs he might be a little annoyed.”

 

The soldier looks at her impassively, as if he could really care less about what John might think. His eyes still dark about restlessly, looking on instinct for weaknesses.

The Protector.

That's what the files called this one.

Anthea's tone is falsely comforting.

 

“I assure you that you are in no danger. My employer merely wishes to speak with John. Nothing more. You could even go back to Sleep if you choose....”

 

The slightly hopeful way in which she says this makes a callous smile cross Daniel's features. His snort is one of disbelief.

 

“Not gonna happen. Sorry sugar.”

 

The woman sighs, but she expected as much. She leans back into her seat and returns to her phone screen, rolling her dark eyes slightly.

Her murmur is deadly soft.

 

“Suit yourself. Either way, he's going to talk to John....”

 

The Soldier doesn't respond. Instead he positions himself defensively, facing inwards just in case Anthea decides to attack. He does not relax for the entirety of the ride, a stone statue of coiled killing strength.

 

The cane is left behind in the car.

Forgotten.

Uneeded.

 

*****

 

The man who greets him is tall. Well-dressed and carrying an umbrella that he twirls lazily in the air. Daniel refused to turn his back on either him or the guards that escorted him in, resolutely refusing to be manhandled inside either. Instead he only agreed to be lead, and even then those blue eyes never stopped moving.

Flickering.

Taking in all possible chances.

All venues of escape or attack.

 

Still, he didn't act on them. He knew better than to. Anyone with enough power to just pick up a random bloke on the street and have him sent to a secluded warehouse for a 'chat' was bound to have hidden ways of prohibiting his departure. Instead his fists tightened as he came to stand in front of a lone chair, staring at the man before him and yet keeping his face impassive and smooth. The man wears a suit that is grey and impeccably clean despite the dirtiness of the deserted location he paces in, and ginger-brown hair bares marks of a receding hairline that comes with age.

 

Mycroft Holmes takes one glance at the killing machine before him and sighs in irritation, his hand flexing upon his umbrella.

His voice is cool like winter's breath, and about as comforting.

 

“No......This will not do at all. I need to speak to John Watson. Not you.”

 

The man lifts his chin defiantly, crossing his arms over his chest. His stance is wide, defensive for the moment instead of offensive. His voice doesn't tremble as he replies.

“Well we can't always get what we want now, can we?”

 

Mycroft offers him a dead smile. One that doesn't reach his eyes. He taps his dark umbrella on the concrete floor, matching the rhythm of the dripping water from the pipes absently. His tone is lightly chiding, as if he's telling off a small child for being petulant. Trying to make a person see his side in an argument.

 

“Come now, must we be unfriendly as this? If my records are right you haven't been Called upon since John's Afghanistan days. Surely I'm not as frightening as _that_. Even now you don't seem very afraid....”

 

Daniel's eyes narrow, mouth drawing into a thin line. It is the only indication at all that he is affected by the man's words.

“Maybe it's because you don't seem very frightening.”

 

The man chuckles then, as if he's just told a very good joke. He leans back a little, regarding Daniel in a calculating manner.

 

“Ah Yes… The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think? Tell me, what is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

 

The Soldier looks at him for a long time, doesn't answer. Mycroft's blue eyes read the quiet with piercing accuracy.

“So _you_ haven't met him yet then. Interesting. When I read your file, I would assume out of all the personalities we've recorded you at least would be aware that you are moving in with a flatmate. One Sherlock Holmes to be precise.”

 

Daniel's voice is a low growl. He steps forward, stopping at the last instant as Mycroft raises a brow in silent challenge. His fists clench and unclench, teeth gritting against one another.

 

“We are not always..... _aware_ of what John does. We are only told what we are needed to know. Only know.... what is _required...._ ”

 

He says tightly.

 

“Mmm, and since yesterday for all intents and purposes you’ve moved in with him and now you’re solving crimes together...... All without telling him of your little.... _condition....._ I wonder if we we might expect a happy announcement by the end of the week....?”

 

Neither of them laugh at the little joke, and it falls silent in the still air. Daniel's face is a tight mask of control, refusing to let any of his emotions break through to the surface. He can feel the control on The Body is tenuous right now, prone to slipping because adrenaline is what wakes him.

Panic.

Yes, when The Body is in a state of fear, he is the one always in Control.

Yet this man is not terrifying.

He is..... strange.

 

He does not know who Sherlock Holmes is, but if he is sharing a living place with The Body then that means it is his duty to ensure that he is safe to be around. Him or Conrad, but Conrad would break things and get too angry for a stealth job. After what happened the last time he wouldn't be trusting Sneak further than he could spit either.

For another time then.

 

As if sensing his thoughts, Mycroft's blue eyes glitter in the fluorescent lights.

“Fascinating. You truly are nothing like what I've read of John Watson. You are different down to how you hold yourself..... Tell me, just how many of you _are_ there? Are they all so...... _real_?”

 

The spark of curiosity is there, well hidden under the mask of ice but Daniel sees it nonetheless. For the moment he allows himself a tight smile, the upturning of lips more bared teeth than friendliness.

 

“That'd be telling. Tell me who you are, and I might consider it.”

 

The man leans on his umbrella, pursing his lips in a blank sort of expression.

 

“I am..... an interested party.....”

 

“Well as you can see I'm not that _interesting_ or useful. John's the only one that knows this.... _Sherlock_ character out of all the personalities, and you're not talking to him or any of the others for that matter unless you can guarantee his safety. Not to mention the fact that if John and him are as _chummy_ as you say then he probably wouldn't want me blabbing about him to someone who's probably an enemy.”

 

Mycroft's eyes narrow dangerously, and he twirls his umbrella about in his hands. Daniel can tell the man is not used to hearing the word _no_ very often. He feels rather than sees shadows shift in the darkness, possibly preparing to subdue him if necessary. He feels his body tense, preparing for battle. Even if he loses, he'll do his damnedest to ensure that at least one other person goes down with him. He'd have to make sure he was quick about it though, because he can feel his control slipping. John is waking up, fighting him subconsciously.

Telling him that there is no reason for his presence.

 

Again, the man before him senses his thoughts almost unfailingly.

“Will John remember any of this when he wakes?”

 

Daniel keeps his tone carefully differential, but his face twists for a moment into a possible expression of strange sadness. His tone is quieter, his hands relaxing at his sides.

 

“No. Maybe in dreams a little bit but...... He is not required to have our memories. We are here so he can _avoid_ suffering. After all, we are just split facets of _him._ ”

 

Ghosts.

Pale shades.

Thin excuses for a whole person.

Daniel is unaware in that moment how he and John reflect each other in that thought.

There's a buzzing in his pocket, low and humming. The soldier half-debates letting it go, but with an aggravated sigh rifles around in his pants pocket until he finds the phone. Turning on the screen, he is subjected to a military-like order staring at him in simple block letters.

 

_**Baker Street.** _   
_**Come at once** _   
_**if convenient.** _   
  
_**SH** _

 

 

SH..... Sherlock Holmes. A message from the mystery man that had somehow convinced one of the shyest and loneliest personalities that he was _trustworthy_.

He feels John stir inside of him, fighting his hold like an uncoiling knot in his stomach.

 

Apparently this Sherlock bloke was in a spot of trouble then. Not that Daniel particularly cares. It's not his job to go about protecting strangers. His only purpose was to defend himself and his comrades in arms. It was the reason he was born, blinking his eyes open for the first time and tasting his world of hot desert and flying shrapnel. He knew the feel of a gun in his hands before he even became aware of how a book spine could be cradled in his fingers. He thrived on the taste of fear as he stitched his friends back together, protecting them from further injury with his own body. He knew the mourning of when you had to use the dead as sandbags to keep from being shot to death alone in the sanded dunes.

 

“I hope I’m not distracting you.”

 

Mycroft says dryly, arching a brow. His smile is smarmy and makes Daniel think of rattler snakes and rats. Things he would have shot in the desert without hesitation.

 

“Not distracting me at all......”

 

“Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?”

 

“I told you, I _have_ no relationship with Sherlock Holmes. I don't _know_ him. It's John's choice whether or not we stay and I could be wrong… but I think that’s none of your business.”

 

“Will any of the other personalities be a threat to him?”

 

“ _Any_ of us are capable of being a threat. Even John, though he doesn't look like it at first glance. I can't control what the others do, and not all of them are on the side of the Doctor. There are those that would like nothing more than to get rid of the personality of John Watson.”

 

He tilts his head to the side, eyebrows lowering in impatience. Mycroft is starting to get annoyed with this. frustrated if a man lik him could be so.

“It _could_ be my business. If you'd let it.....”

“It _really_ couldn’t.”

 

And his arms cross over his chest again, a signal that the discussion is over. His voice holds the weight of finality. One that the man seems insistent to ignore as he pulls out a Manila envelope from his suit pocket.

“If you do move into, um… …221B Baker Street, I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way.”

 

He takes out a pen, clicking it with his thumb as he takes out a stack of bank notes with a rolling of his eyes. Daniel feels the back of his neck prickle with fury at the thought that he can be bought. That he's a mercenary instead of a damn veteran that deserves a little more respect than _this._

 

“Why?”

 

“Because you’re not a wealthy man, and neither are your other personalities.”

 

Point taken.

Irrelevant. John doesn't know it, but there were months where they lived on the streets. Most of the time though they had made him sleep through it.

“In exchange for what?”

“Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you’d feel… uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he’s up to. You could even do it instead of John, if you feel like sparing him from anything unsavoury....”

“Why?”

“I worry about him. _Constantly_.”

 

And the way he says it, Daniel feels like he's in the middle of some crappy soap opera with illicit lovers and petty lies. He resists the urge to spit at the man's polished shoes.

“That’s a little fucked up.... You must understand, I'm a soldier. I don't sell what I know. If you're so concerned you might be better off finding out for yourself what he's up to-”

 

 

“-But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a… difficult relationship.” Mycroft interrupts, jaw clenching.

 

Again the phone buzzes. This time Daniel feels something almost akin to nausea as John fights against him, the roiling in his stomach unpleasant and painful. He feels a sheen of sweat begin to bead his brow as he reads the text, gritting his teeth against the temptation to go to sleep.

**_If inconvenient,_ **   
**_come anyway._ **   
  
**_SH_ **

 

“No.”

 

Daniel says weakly, and he's not sure whether it's directed towards John or towards the man before him. He sways slightly, and Mycroft catches the tiny movement for what it is and begins to speak with a rush of speed.

 

“This is your last chance. Your loyalty towards Sherlock Holmes is touching but useless. Daniel, The amount of money I can give you-”

 

The Soldier laughs weakly then, gripping his shoulder as the phantom pain of shrapnel tearing into his flesh echoes through him. Reminding him that this body is not his own. Demanding he leave.

 

“Don’t bother. There's no time, and even if there was I wouldn't.”

 

His eyes flutter closed for a moment, and Mycroft notices how his entire body shudders, gripping his leg and grimacing in pain. Daniel sits himself down on the chair he previously had doggedly ignored, feeling the last of his resolve fade away.

 

“You’re very loyal, _very_ quickly.....”

The Scottish brogue is beginning to fade. It becomes steadily British with each and every word. Daniel feels the familiar brush of sleep edging into him, wrapping him up tightly in blankets of dark. Calling him softly into shadow. With it he brushes arms with John, pulling himself out of the sticky sleep to take the helm of their body.

 

“See that's the funny thing about my loyalty. Usually, it doesn't exist.....”

 

Mycroft's words, quaking softly in the depths of his mind.

 

“Then why?”

 

“Because John trusts him.”

 

He says simply, and his entire body slumps forward like a puppet who's strings have been cut.

John trusts him.

The man before him probably has no idea of the significance of that sentence, because he doesn't _know_ John like Daniel knows him.

John trusts no one.

John is not loyal.

He is just lonely.

 

The Soldier's eyes flutter closed, and the last thing he sees is the outline of that umbrella, twirling in thought. It's black outline spins in a pinwheel, narrowing in his vision as he slips away. Spinning and looking almost like fireworks as the entire scene seeps into darkness.

 

Sherlock sends one more text, but it buzzes and is left unanswered as Mycroft has his men carry John's lifeless form back into the car. Anthea sees it hum in the dark of the cab, and her dark curls sway as she leans over and takes it out of his coat pocket. Her hands clink past keys and coins-

exactly where the Detective said Watson wouldn't leave his most valuable item.

Daniel didn't have such reservations.

 

_**Could be** _   
_**dangerous.** _   
  
_**SH** _

And the woman smiled, because as she looked over the man who was steadily coming to and realizing what's just happened, she can't help but agree.

It _could_ be dangerous indeed.

Whether it would be for John Watson, or Sherlock Holmes _himself_..... well.....

 

Who could really say?


	3. Child's Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's been awhile, I've had exams and they've been slowly killing me and draining my life :/ 
> 
> Please enjoy! kudos comments and constructive criticism make my week! :P

 

 

When John came home, utterly exhausted from the Blackout and feeling just a little bit sore, he was greeted with Sherlock's languid form lying on his back on the couch. In the half dark he squinted through his pounding headache, trying to make sense of the man's awkward posture. He lay there completely still, eyes closed. Hands folded against his lips, almost as if he were praying. Except John was fairly sure Sherlock didn't have a deity he felt the need to pray to. Except perhaps himself. The enigmatic man didn't seem to even notice his entrance, and for that the soldier could only pray for small mercies.

He was utterly knackered.

Stumbling upstairs, he barely noticed those blue-green eyes open, regarding him with narrowed eyes. Taking in his appearance, analyzing where he's been and who he was with. His upper lip twitches slightly in distaste.

Mycroft.

And yet his annoyance is distracted by something else, something in John's demeanour that would pass almost unnoticed by most people and yet made Sherlock's head tilt slightly to the side, momentarily putting aside the case of the woman in pink to ponder at what his brain was trying to tell him.

For a moment he thought he imagined it.

John's phone is clinking in his pocket with his keys.

 

But before he can wonder at what might have distracted or distressed the Doctor so as to make him change his treatment of his most expensive item on his person he disappears to his room, the door closing softly above. The low click in the flat is an alien sound to Sherlock's ears, as he is used to living alone. With John's presence comes a wealth of little noises, things that are distracting in their newness and tempting to pull him from his thoughts. The most interesting thing is that the man didn't even seem to realize that he did it. He coaxed Sherlock to eat when he normally would have ignored his stomach's steady stream of complaints, and made him tea with sweet honey even though they barely knew one another.

A caretaker's complex. Not unusual for a person who practised medicine. Still with John he pondered on the question if it ran deeper than that. If it had something to do with his obviously rough childhood past. Though even he couldn't deduce everything about the outline of what had become of John's family, he could tell a few things. One, it had happened when John was quite, _quite_ young. If he had to guess, he'd say no older than eight years of age. Probably younger. What's more by the way his temperament was, John whispered a past having taken both the position of the younger child and the older. So a sibling was likely, though it may be only one since he had in all probability grown up in a orphanage where sibling-like bonds were often formed. He considered all of this while listening to the soft thumping about upstairs, a small crease of thought pressing itself into the cleft of his brow.

 

Strangely enough he finds he doesn't mind the presence of John Watson.

Though he supposed in reality, he's a dreadfully simple and quiet sort of creature.

Still, there is something to be said for simple, at times.

 

One thing Sherlock knew for certain at least, was that there was no way John would ever be able to keep a secret from him. He chuckles to himself once at even the idea, and then his mind flits back to the case at hand.

 

****

 

It is the sound of a bullet shattering through glass that makes Sherlock first think that John Watson is extraordinary. The sound crashes past his ear, hitting the cabbie/serial murderer square in the shoulder as he topples backwards with the force of it like a pin struck by a bowling ball. His knees go out from under him as Sherlock's dark curls whip about, staring at the empty window in shock and rapid calculation as the bottle of pills falls from his slack fingers.

Momentarily forgotten.

Then before he can register the fact that someone has shot a man for him he realizes that the man on the floor in front of him is dying, bleeding out rapidly. The red liquid pours out beneath him in crimson vitality, a deep and heady shade of live leaving too quickly. Sherlock's mind is back on the case, on the idea of a 'sponsor', on the mysterious voice murmuring to him

 

“ _You have a fan.”_

 

Because what kind of killer would be a _fan_ of Sherlock Holmes?

His pristine shoe became stained with red as he dug his weight into the man's shoulder, earning a keening cry as the cabbie flung back his head in agony and his glasses sparked from the overhead fluorescent eyes. Hiding the widening of his pupils as he howled in agony underneath him. Sherlock felt no remorse, the only thing that drove him was finding out the answer, if not about the true nature of the pills then the name of the person watching him.

His voice spills harshly out of his chest, echoing across the room. An animalistic snarl that is edged in a borderline madness and driven determination.

 

“ _ **A NAME! GIVE ME A NAME!”**_

 

And the cabbie's little gasp as the life fled from him, the pain too much to bear. His slightly crooked teeth gritting as his last breath shuddered through his wretched figure.

 

“ _MORIARTY!”_

 

Like the ricochet of the bullet slicing through his shoulder, his voice rang out in the room. Echoing as he quietly struggled in one last feeble attempt, and then died pressed underneath the crushing force of Sherlock's shoe.

 

****

John had been in truth privately amazed with himself.

Not because he had killed a man, because that wasn't something to be amazed about. No.

He was amazed because _he_ had done it. Not one of his Others. _Himself._

 

His body had immediately made himself dive out of Sherlock's sight in a mixture of shock and adrenaline, his hand cradling the still-smoking weapon in his palm as he tried to wrap his mind around the fact that he had actually _done_ it.

That his hands alone had closed about the trigger, and that _he_ had killed a man to save the life of his flatmate. Hadn't even hesitated.

Just did it.

Lying there on the tiled floor, already scooting himself out the door and away before the police came looking for him, the Doctor hadn't been sure whether to laugh or to perhaps begin to sob.

Because he realized the only thought in his mind at that moment had been saving Sherlock's ass from his own stupidly smart impulses.

 

It had been ages, an eternity it seemed, since he had held a gun without the express longing to put it against his own head.

Perhaps that was why he hadn't shifted over, and he wondered to himself if maybe his Others were sending him some kind of message.

Behave yourself and we won't interfere.

The thought makes him laugh hoarsely, even as he slips out into the night to 'arrive' on the scene after the police cars arrived. Lestrade wouldn't buy it because he had seen John leave earlier, but he wouldn't question it either, John felt. He hadn't really gotten to know the Detective Inspector yet, but he got the sense that he was used to bending the rules just a little.

The fake drug bust earlier at least had attested to that.

Not that it hadn't shocked him to find out that his flatmate was an ex-junkie. He just figured that everyone had their issues, and he wasn't one to judge all things considered. As it was anyway, Sherlock seemed to be reasonably stable under all of the mad, raving genius that took crap from no one and could see what he had for breakfast that morning.

 

He didn't know why Sherlock suddenly unlocked the hidden ability to stay himself. To maintain John Watson and hold him inside his own personality, allowing him an unfamiliar freedom he didn't quite know what to do with. He also didn't know why the man looked at him with such incredulity as the puzzle snapped together in his head, his orange shock blanket wrapped haphazardly about his skinny shoulders as if he was some helpless damsel in distress. With his unruly curls and disbelieving gaze, John actually found himself stifling a giggle against the back of his hand even as he flicked a too-innocent glare over to the Detective to tell him to shut up. The man abruptly stopped talking to Lestrade, telling him hilariously enough to

 

“Ignore all of that. It's just er, the _shock_ talking....”

 

Ignoring the D.I's plaintive cries of “Where are you going?” Sherlock stalked off, using his usual amount of natural arrogance and grace to fling the bright orange and decidedly offensive square of material over his shoulder before ducking under the neon yellow police tape. His figure outlined by the red and blue flash of police sirens, John finds himself wondering just how he managed to look simultaneously baffled and yet graceful at the same time.

To his credit, he tries to play dumb. Even though he already knows that Sherlock thinks him a horrible liar. Maybe he was, at least where the Detective was concerned.

 

“Um, Sergeant Donovan’s just been explaining everything, the two pills. Been a dreadful business, hasn’t it? Dreadful.”

 

They both began to walk together in comfortable silence, however John could feel the man's eyes like laser bearing down on the back of his neck. Noting how he couldn't meet his gaze. Instead he stared at his hands, where the faint outline of gunpowder still stained his thumbs. How long had it been since that had meant something good? Or at least something exciting?

Maybe he was even crazier than he thought, because if he actually was being honest with himself, he was trying very hard not to laugh. Not to smile like an idiot because of the bubbling happiness in his chest. Fresh and new when before there was only dull monotony. He is surprised at how quickly the grey canvas of his life has been spattered with a new colour. Vivid green and silver, the same shade as the Detective's piercing stare.

 

He tries not to look _too_ smugly guilty when Sherlock smirks and whispers

“Nice shot.”

 

“Yes.... Yes it must have been.....through that window.....”

 

“Well, _you'd_ know.”

 

And they both stop, and Sherlock suddenly towering over John, trying to glean a confession from him even as the Doctor stubbornly clenches his jaw and look to the ground. Studying the outline of his shoes. In the dark his ash-blonde hair glints softly, and Sherlock wonders at the mystery of John Watson. How someone could seem so normal, and yet not get the gravity of such a situation. The magnitude of what he's done. Not just some small favour.

Then he glanced at his hands and resisted the urge to shove the evidence on them back into the Doctor's pockets.

 

“Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case.”

 

At the mention of court some of John's earlier pride with himself fades. His mouth quirks downwards, and he guiltily reminds himself that he has just taken a life. That he should not be feeling so damn light on his feet. That this was not how _normal_ people responded. As it was his uncertainties, things that he had pushed aside with the impulsive desperation to save Sherlock begin to work their way into his mind. Telling him he's probably more than a little bit cracked to have even chased after the Detective at all. As if sensing his confidence leaving him, Sherlock's brow lowers in a rare display of concern.

His voice rumbles lowly, as if he's half-afraid John might lash out at him.

“Are you all right?”

 

His first answer is instinct. An automatic response from being asked so many times in both the Army and as a child the exact same question. The slightly defensive bristling of his shoulders is not lost on the Detective.

“Yes, of course I'm all right.”

 

And then Sherlock, blunt as ever.

“Well, you _have_ just killed a man.”

 

He watches as those blue eyes flinch just slightly, and then smooth over into grim acceptance and resignation. His shoulders align themselves with military-like straightness as if bracing himself for some sort of fight.

 

“That's true isn't it?”

 

And then he takes a breath of air, every muscle in him loosening, and Sherlock sees John's rapidly becoming familiar smile slowly curl on his features.

 

“But he wasn't a very nice man.”

 

“No. No, he really wasn't was he?”

 

“And frankly a bloody awful cabbie.”

 

The bark of Sherlock's laugh is a surprising and warm sound, something that John doesn't expect but finds himself reacting to with a giggle of his own.

 

“That's true. He _was_ a bad cabbie. Should of seen the route he took us to get here!”

 

Then neither of them can contain their laughter, and the only thing that makes John bite the inside of his cheek savagely to quell the giggles is Seargeant Donovan's glare.

“Stop it! Stop we can't giggle! It's a _crime scene,_ stop it!”

 

But it's no use, both of them are gasping for breath and trying too hard to put back on their masks of steady composure only to fail miserably when their eyes connect again and spark off of one another. When John finally catches his breath he hardly notices the sleek black car that's waiting for them placidly on the curb, a dark shadow of a man he did not recognize twirling an umbrella as he watched unobtrusively as his younger brother Sherlock Holmes and John Watson looked for all the world like the best of mates standing side by side. Mycroft mused to himself absently that to anyone who didn't know his brother better, one might even say that they made a decent pair.

The elder Holmes however refused to buy it just yet, if only because he could see the way Watson's hands twitched every so often. Still on alert, a wolf sleeping in sheep's skin.

 

And he didn't think anything of it as his usually stoic brother smiled at his shorter companion, his deep voice rumbling an open invitation.

 

“Dinner?”

 

“ _Starving_.”

 

****

 

Sherlock took him to a restaurant called _The Golden Panda King_ , a place that apparently had such a wide variety of spices in their Chow Mein that the lanky Detective had bothered to store its' name in his Mind-Palace. He rambled easily at John about how to recognize quality Chinese food even as the bell chimed over their heads, jingling pleasantly and informing the staff of their arrival. They get a table that's near the window, greeted by a pretty Asian waitress that has her long, dark tresses tied back with a pink ornamental hairpin. John smiles at her warmly, thankful to be in the company of beautiful women and surprisingly enough a good friend. Sherlock's hands smooth themselves against the deep red tablecloth as he picks up the plastic menu, dark curls peeking from just above the top and blocking his expression (which had acquired a peculiar level of sulking when he noticed the Doctor's attentions and where they lay) from John's view. Pouring himself a cup of green tea and humming in pleasure at it's relaxing flavour, the blonde Doctor sat back and marvelled again at how everything seemed so, well..... peaceful.

 

After spending so much time chasing after a serial murderer, getting kidnapped by strange black cars (a black spot he dreaded to consider the meaning of) and watching a fake drugs bust, he felt almost unused to the silence as he stared at the menu before him, figuring out what he wanted to eat. His eyes rove over the long list of titles, dishes he could scarcely pronounce much less hope stomaching, but always his irises found themselves drawn to the top of that curly head of hair. When Sherlock had told him the last time they were at a restaurant that he was “married to his work”, John in truth had been more than a little bit relieved. Not that he had a problem with the idea of his flatmate being in a relationship with anyone, but because of the simple fact that hiding his secret was difficult enough without another set of eyes observing him. He had been embarrassed and more than a little bit amused that Sherlock had thought him to be flirting with him, but he had to be forward in order to be certain that there was no one else he would be required to fool on a regular basis. Still, his memory kept flicking to the wide-eyed almost shy expression the Detective had worn when he had assumed that John was asking him out. It had been a momentary break in his usual mask of cold determination, and the soldier wondered to himself if he could get that kind of vulnerability out of the man without having to awkwardly romanticise him. Because John knew one thing as he decided upon having the crispy beef with rice, that he was not looking for something like a lover.

No.

That would never work.

He largely ignored his sexual impulses, and when they became too much, he blacked out and often just woke up in a strange bed with a strange woman or man.

And it was all fine, because he knew that was all he could ever have.

The chances of him actually succeeding in a relationship would be almost astronomically impossible.

Not with someone as fragmented and shattered as him.

He ignored the pang of loneliness that rippled down his spine at that thought.

 

He realized then at that moment he had been staring at Sherlock for far longer than he had intended. That the Detective was staring back at him just as fixedly, a small amused smile torquing one corner of his mouth.

 

He watched as John startled like a rabbit caught between two headlights, mumbling a hasty apology and nervously looking down and away. The Detective didn't bother to tell him that he really didn't mind the staring, as it gave him permission to do the same. It occurs to him to perhaps ask him about his phone, or question him as to why he did not show any iota of recognition upon seeing Mycroft Holmes, but he finds himself holding his tongue. The thought is lost as he becomes lost in the present John, who looks decidedly bashful and happy. Tired, but utterly relaxed. So unlike the lonely man that had limped into the lab only a few days ago. Even his cane is gone, and it is at once baffling as it is thrilling. He found that despite Watson's supposed simplicity, he enjoyed reading his expressions and guessing at the thoughts behind those deep blue eyes. If anything, he kept him from being _bored._

 

****

Sherlock hasn't slept for nearly a week straight, so when the two of them both arrive late at night at their flat, they are both slogging tiredly up the steps towards the door. Though the Detective made an effort not to show his exhaustion, John can read it in the slightly slowed reactions, his usual grace faltering a bit as he searched for the keys in the pocket of his belstaff. When his hands tremble slightly as he tries to fit the key in the lock Sherlock scowls darkly, eyebrows lowering in annoyance at his own body's refusal to cooperate. He nearly flinches away when John's hand covers his own and guides it absently to it's proper place, removing itself in a clinical manner a second later and making Sherlock's sleep-deprived brain almost wish for it to return.

Foolish.

 

They both stumble into the dark flat, John trying not to trip over the couch on the way to the stairs, Sherlock not even caring as his legs jerked out from under him and he landed face-first onto the soft green-black cushion. The blonde man paused at the bottom of the steps, glancing at the wraith-like figure of his flatmate sprawled with his cheek buried in the back of the couch. His voice soft in the dark, he hesitated before gripping the railing of the stairs.

 

“You shouldn't fall asleep there you know....”

 

But the Detective is already gone to the world, lost to the utter exhaustion of his own mind, and John finds himself suppressing a small smile. He turns to the closet, opening it softly to get a thick blanket from the top shelf and carrying it on tip-toe to the sleeping man before him. Perhaps it's his Mothering instincts from his years of taking care of younger children in the orphanages he had grown up in, but he can't stand the idea of anyone falling asleep in the cold. He drapes the material over Sherlock's too-thin shoulders and sighs to himself, pausing to tuck the edges underneath the warm body. The darkly-curled head doesn't stir during the entire process, his face completely slack and free of all arrogance and cold. In his dreamlike state, John thinks the Detective looks almost sad. There is an open expression of vulnerability in that face, hidden well by high cheekbones and well-crafted disguise. He frowns a little, wondering how with so many faces of his own, he hadn't seen Sherlock's true face right away. He vows from then on to watch the Detective more closely, if only to learn about him. To get to know him better.

 

After all, John has never really had a friend before. Certainly not one as incredibly spectacular or strange as Sherlock Holmes.

 

****

It is nearly three hours later into the night when John Watson, looking for all the world like he's dead asleep in his bed, opens his eyes. In the dark, those irises gleam like quicksilver, cat-like and wary as slowly the man rises. Except one might be able to tell if they looked closely that the person that had overtaken the Doctor was most definitely _not_ John.

No.

Not by the way they glance around the room with too-wide eyes, taking account of their new home with a childlike innocence even while moving soundlessly out of bed. As if perfectly aware of their limbs in the way only an extremely acrobatic person could be, John's body moved into a half-crouch on his own hardwood floor, defensively and reflexively searching for any sign of enemies or weapons nearby.

 

Claude was always careful like this. She had to be. Danger could be at any turn, despite Daniel's reassurances that he would come if he sensed The Body was in trouble. Palms lying spread on the wooden ground and bracing her weight lightly on the balls of her feet, she observed quietly that the older Others had been right. They had moved yet again, the beige bedsit no longer glaring at her with stark hatred. Nervous creature she was though, she carefully checked under the bed, searching for the Browning. Big Brother Conrad didn't like it when she touched guns, but it's not like she didn't know how to use them. However she frowned as John's usual hiding place of his weapon seemed to have changed. A pout formed slightly on her features, looking strange on the face of a middle-aged man and yet childishly cute to any observer.

_No fair._

 

She thought, and she mentally whinged at Daniel in reproach.

_Nobody told her anything._

 

However it was silent in her head, so obviously the older personality had no comment on her complaints. She huffed slightly, moving with almost inhuman speed towards the door to the bedroom.

Noiseless.

Fine then.

 

In truth, she was somewhat bitter about the whole situation to begin with. It was not her _job_ to do this, to skulk after some nameless flatmate that _might_ be dangerous to John's welfare. Personally she felt the good Doctor could make his own decision on who he decided to affiliate himself with, and that her talents should only be called upon if _**He**_ returned or worse. She was always called on when Sneak was being stupid. After all, why make any of the adults do it?

She was just a little kid. 

Her nose wrinkled slightly at the unfairness of it all, huffing slightly at the thought of always being pushed around just because she wasn't big or strong like Conrad or annoyingly bossy like Daniel. It did a number on her nerves whenever she was sent to the battlefield, and she didn't like being told what to do to begin with. Not unless she got something in return. Which she _better_ after tonight.

She felt exposed as she opened the door to the bedroom a crack, and the hair on the back of her blonde head tingled slightly as if she were being watched. Swallowing reflexively, she wished again that Sneak and Daniel weren't having a spat. Although even she thought that Sneak had struck a low blow last time with his stupid stunts. She was more than a little bit afraid of that personality, but only because her other brother thought him to be foolish. She took her other brother's word to heart, even though the others didn't like him. After all, her other brother had gotten rid of _**Him**_ , so she supposed she owed him. She no longer had to hide unless she wanted to, which sometimes she did. No longer did she have to lock herself into closets, clapping her hands over her ears and whimpering and wishing that she wasn't the personality that John called on during his 'scared' moments. In fact now her job was much easier, as she was only forcibly called on when John sometimes had a really bad nightmare.

 

When he started to remember, which he musn't, _musn't_ ever do.

 

Licking her lips nervously, she continued her strange gait over to the foot of the stairs, rifling through the Doctor's memory to discover which steps creaked and which didn't.

The seventh and the fifth.

Unerringly, her feet leapt over those steps and landed on the ones below them, her shadow a willing puppet as it stretched behind her like a second body mimicking her every move. Claude could taste in the flat it's relaxed confines, the sort of humbly beautiful area about her now black and white contrasts in the moonlight that streamed in through the windows. Her hair glinted like it was laced with morning dew, almost metallic as she passed the pane in the kitchen, sparing a sparse glance for the hum of the city outside. Her eyes unerringly picked out the lightly snoring outline of the man she was targeting, and she slowed in the entrance to the living room, eyes taking in for the first time the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes.

 

Claude was an extremely suspicious personality by nature, and she was immediately distrustful of men. So her eyes narrowed fractionally when she saw the hard lines that made up the Detective, halting into a half-crouch and prepared to dive defensively under the kitchen table should the need arise. Curling in an acrobatic way that John Watson would not have believed his body would be capable of doing, she twisted her head to the side in an attempt to glean a face under the mess of tangled dark curls that face inwards towards the couch. However from her vantage point, she soon became frustrated. The angle was too awkward, and she could not make out anything. However to get a better view she would have to get closer, and the thought made every limb in her body scream with discomfort. Yet the figure before her was still, almost deathly so, and showed no sign of being aware of her eyes drilling into the base of his neck. Sherlock Holmes' breath came steadily from his lips in an even rhythm, and his lashes fluttered ever-so-slightly in REM sleep that signalled a calm within the man. Claude noticed how he was sleeping in a suit and pants, and wondered to herself why adults were so foolish. She much preferred the fuzzy onesies John as a child had worn, all soft fluff and cotton edges. It seemed uncomfortable, for such an impossibly long body to curl itself in the small confines of the couch. She could almost see the knots forming in the man's shoulders, that would no doubt cause him trouble in the morning. For a moment she frowned, hoping that it would not make him cross. Claude hated cross adults, especially cross men. They reacted badly, and shouted and struck out. She trembled at the thought as she willed herself to creep forward, only Daniel's voice encouraging her to move.

 

_**Can we speed this up? With your lurking you'll wake him.** _

 

_Do you doubt me? You **know** how quiet I am._

 

Yet even with her mental indignation she halted a breath away from the back of the cough, hesitantly rising to John's full height to stare down at the new person who had entered the life of John Watson. What Claude saw she did not expect for someone so lithely built.

High, almost delicate cheekbones, pinkened slightly with sleep. Eyes with such dark lashes they seemed almost female, and a bowed lip that looked like it was used to scowling but could have a beautifully crooked grin. The man's dark curls tumbled erratically about his face in loose disarray, framing a pointed chin and curling just under two pale ears. His skin was paper-white, not the kind of skin Claude had taken to associating with men. It held in it a soft quality that made her almost tempted to reach out and touch it, if she hadn't been shaking in fear. Her breath came quicker as she felt Sneak's interest rise inside of her, his appearance not unlike a woman's in the delicate structure of his form. Still, even with his elfin limbs and almost frail body mass, Claude could see a great deal of muscle hidden under deceptive clothes and concealing buttons. A part of her found the man not unlike a cat, especially in the way he folded himself up into an impossibly disjointed ball of sharp elbows and knees in order to catch a few hours of rest. The dark circles under his eyes did little to perturb the flirtatious voice inside of her head that made her want to scowl.

 

**This one's yummy looking. Johnny sure has good taste even if he never has the balls to make a move.**

 

_Shut up Sneak! You are not scaring this one away!_

 

**Why should I listen to you? You're just a child....**

_ **Better a child than a whore!** _

 

Conrad suddenly snarled, and both of them winced and stopped their petty bickering. Claude snapped back to the matter at hand just in time to see a flurry of movement in front of her. Automatically she reacted, her heartbeat flying into her mouth in fear.

 

Within seconds, John's body was crouched several feet away under the kitchen table, shadowed in the dark as the little girl refused to even breathe or blink. Her cat-like eyes glimmered as she prepared for anything from an awakening to lashing out, or even abusive words thrown her way. Mentally she felt all of the personalities suddenly on alert, prepared to swap out with her if it came down to a fight. Conrad's protective snarl loomed in the base of her skull, and she could feel her other older brother deep inside shifting ever so slightly. Paying attention to what was happening. However, Sherlock Holmes merely shifted in his sleep. Rolling over, his languid form uncurled itself slightly to stretch his impossibly long legs unconsciously, eyes fluttering in dream-like sequence as he softly sighed. All of the personalities watched guardedly as the Detective mumbled something low in his sleep, unaware of the shadow with silver-blue eyes watching his every movement in the dark. Then he settled back down under the blanket, hands curling tighter about its' edge and drawing nearer to its' warmth. Claude thought he almost looked like a kid, like her. She found herself wondering if Sherlock Holmes liked to play games like scrabble and Cluedo. She is surprised when her mouth turns in a small smile at the decidedly infantile way the grown man snuggles deeper into the covers.

 

_He's like me when he sleeps...._

 

_**That doesn't mean he's not dangerous....** _

 

Daniel muttered cautiously in her head. Conrad's voice was suspicious and tense.

 

_ **I still don't like it. We've never had anyone living with John before. Anything could happen. Bad things.....** _

 

Then Sneak's, appropriately drawling and lazy.

 

**I don't care either way. I just think I could just cut myself on those gorgeous cheekbones.**

 

_I wonder if he likes jacks._

 

Claude thought. She had never had a playmate before. Maybe if Mr. Holmes found out about them he'd play with her. The thought sends a tingling of happiness down her spine, even if she's still a little afraid of him. However the older personalities shift uncomfortably at the idea of being found out, and she deflates a little in disappointment at their less- than supportive feelings. She feels her lower lip tremble slightly, and somewhat sullenly she thinks

 

_He's going to find out eventually I bet. He doesn't look stupid. John doesn't like stupid people._

 

And then Daniel's voice, the parenting figure despite everything, softens in her ear.

 

_**Go get yourself a biscuit Claude. You did well tonight.** _

 

Still sad but reluctantly brightening a little, the girl crawls out from under the table, using John's memory to find the jar of biscuits on the top shelf, carefully avoiding the fridge lest she find some horror like frozen fingers or limbs. She sticks a jammy dodger in her mouth happily and begins her lithe journey back to John's room, making sure to check one more time to ensure that Mr. Holmes was still safely asleep and bared no threat. Nodding slightly at the sight of his eyes still being closed, Claude moved silently up the steps, oblivious to the crumbs that she left behind on the floor of the kitchen and living room that would have Sherlock Holmes wondering why flatmate had felt _peckish_ at around three in the morning.


	4. When Things Begin To Unravel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is shorter than the others. sorry, I just felt this is a good place to cut off ^_^ next chapter should be out sooner than last time >.>

 

 

For a while since that case, things fell into some sense of normalcy for the flat of _**221 B.**_

Of course, by most people's standards, that really wasn't normal at all. Not that John particularly minded, mostly because people around him all of his life had tried to make his life 'normal' and it had driven him almost insane as a child. The times he remembered anyway. People seemed to think as a kid that because he was constantly being shuffled around foster homes that he wanted his life to be as bland and boring as humanly possible, but because Sherlock didn't know his past he treated him differently. He didn't treat John like he was fragile, even though on really rainy days his leg seized up and he could sometimes barely move. He didn't treat him like he was weak, even when he struggled some nights even going to sleep as uneasily he worried about shifting to another personality in front of the Detective by accident. Sherlock didn't even treat John like he was _unimportant_ , instead seeming to value his opinion and even crave his company. It was strange, because John was so used to being ignored. So used to being lonely and just a little bit invisible. Yet it was impossible to be invisible under the watch of those blazing azure eyes. 

He was just starting to feel like maybe, just maybe, he could do this.

Pull this off.

Live a happy and fulfilled existence while pretending that his condition didn't exist. Because John didn't want to give the Others a chance at taking him over, of gaining permanent control. Even though sometimes he suspected that's what would happen in the end. Yet none had come to him in quite awhile, and John sometimes wondered if they were waiting for him to do something. To initiate at just the right moment and spring on him when he least expected it. So he bought his time even while smiling, only becoming slightly distressed when he found out that Sherlock had used up all of the groceries for experiments, even his favourite strawberry jam. 

Though of course he complained, if only because it entertained the Detective. John knew it did, because even though he held a book up to hide his face the ex army doctor could feel his slowly curling smirk on the back of his neck like the breath of a kiss.

 

Heck, he might even get a job, because by the look of the bills being ignored on the table, he'd need it soon. Rent didn't pay itself, and Sherlock's only case had something to do with a jewel thief and was barely a five on both the payment and interest scale. He hadn't had a real job in a long time, he'd missed the monotony of work. It relaxed him, and would probably make it even easier not to Split into one of the Others on Sherlock's watch. So he left with his resume in the front of his coat pocket and a credit card in his wallet, his left hand writing Sherlock a note to tell him where he would be in case the Detective was only pretending to listen and didn't realize where he'd taken off to.

****

Shopping was always something John had done, even a a child in Foster Care. Since he was often the oldest one in the families that he was assigned to live with, the guardian of the house would usually look to him to go and buy supplies. Often there were at least five other children, and the adult couldn't leave the rest of the younger kids to themselves or risk having their house destroyed. Orphans tended to make bad house-mates as too often they were angry, depressed, violent or dishonest or some mix of the four. John never really got to befriend any of the other kids, he was moved about so much that he didn't often stay long enough to form any lasting bonds. Plus, many times the kids were more than just a little afraid or confused by him. They'd ask him why he 'used a different name sometimes' or 'why he got so angry'. Too often John didn't remember what had happened, and he had found himself apologizing for things his body had done but his mind had checked-out on. 

 

And sometimes, he blinked and he had found himself face-to-face with a very angry Foster Parent, screaming at him for actions he didn't recall.

Then he would be moved again, and the cycle would start all over.

 

He blinked away the memory as he looked through the aisles of food, settling finally on a head of lettuce and some bread along with a block of cheese. At least enough to make a sandwich. He wonders to himself if he might be able to even get Sherlock to have a bite when he finds his eyes straying across the small clusters of people, his pace slowing down as a strange tingling sensation crawls up the back of his neck. Like a viper coiling itself about his shoulders, its' fangs hovering just by his jugular. Unwillingly, his legs stop moving forward, the basket in his hands lowering until he's almost tempted to just drop it on the floor. His body feels heavy and lead-like and his eyelids droop as for a moment something flickers across his vision that's not actually there.

 

A flash of dark hallways, recognizable as _**221 B**_ , and the lingering flavour of sweets in his mouth. And overall sensation of fear.

Then quick as it's come it fades, and John blinks foggily as he tries to maintain his bearings about him even as he limps towards the self check-out. It happens sometimes, the briefest flash of remembrance. Like shards of a mirror glittering past his eye before twisting and flipping away into the dark. It left with them sharp abrasions in his mind, bleeding invisibly and leaving John feeling suddenly ill and head-achy. He swallowed thickly, thinking maybe he should go home and rest. Forget the groceries, he felt like he was going to be sick....

 

Then suddenly the pain became a blinding point between his eyes of white-hot intensity and John gasped, clutching at his forehead and nearly keeling over as a wave of agony settled over him. He could feel rapidly-turning concerned gazes around him as he grit his teeth and used the aisle shelf for support, knees trembling as visions flickered behind his eyelids. He willed himself to take a deep breath, muscles in his neck all tightening with the motion. As if from underwater, he could hear someone distantly asking if he was okay. John wasn't sure. It was like something black and bleak had taken over him, a terrible kind of fear he wasn't sure he could describe. Darting a tongue over his lower lip, he thinks he manages to give someone Sherlock's phone number before he passes out. Then the nighmarish darkness is consuming him, and John feels his legs give out underneath him hard, the tile bruising his shins. Someone lowers him the rest of the way to the ground, checking his pulse. He is sure it is thundering, because he can hear it in his own ears. Pounding, pulsing loudly and wetly and consuming his thoughts. It almost seems to blur, the noise doubling into two then one with the dizziness of his senses. 

 

Right before he passes out that second heartbeat seems to surge, and John realizes that again he is going to turn. Again he will become one of his Others, and in a crowded place filled with people.

More importantly, Sherlock is probably on his way.

 

There is no doubt in John's mind that he will come, for some odd reason. 

His last thought as the world tips like he's on a ship cresting the sea is that it's curious, how he trusts the man more than he trusts other parts of himself.

 

****

Sherlock doesn't answer the phone. In fact he ignores it completely at first, hands folded in front of his face in calculation, fingers tapping gently on opposite knuckles as he stared hard at the folder sitting on the table before him. His dark curls glint with the late morning sunshine streaming hatefully through his window, making him appear to me almost ethereal save for his blue eyes piercing the seemingly offensive slip of paper before him. Across the room from him Mycroft smiles falsely, hands tapping on his umbrella imperiously as one eyebrow lifted in amusement. When he speaks his voice has the chill of Winter edging it on, but it's frosted edges have little effect on the made made of sunlight before him. Like Night and Day they face each other, opposite sides of the same coin. Sherlock tries to ignore the irony in the fact that compared to his older brother, he is the lighter presence.

 

“I don't have all day Sherlock. Do you want the file or no?”

 

Instead of answering directly, the Detective's eyes narrow fractionally. He glances again to the folder, temptingly large and heavy with information, whispering to him a promise of relieved boredom if he chose to only reach his hand out. Instead he grips his fingers together harder, mouth drawing a firm line of displeasure as he scans his elder brother scorchingly.

 

“Why? What is in that file that makes you think I would care?”

 

Without preamble the man shrugs, as if the question is just idle instead of probing. His pale blue eyes flick to gaze about the flat, smirking slightly as if he found something highly amusing. Sherlock watches him carefully, noting how his eyes come to rest in particular on the teacup John had set out for him earlier, then glancing over towards the mirror on the wall. His voice is carefully bland, but it niggles at the Detective's curiosity, nudging it to life despite the fact that Sherlock was stubbornly repressing it.

 

“An ex-Army doctor honourably discharged due to a shoulder wound. So simple really, pedestrian one might say. Yet _you_ , a man who'd sooner claw his own face off than risk boredom, haven't disposed of him yet. Tell me-”

 

And Mycroft leans forward so that he is folded in the middle like a piece of paper, eyebrows lowering in suspicion as his voice dripped false courtesy

 

“What has Mr. Watson told you about himself that makes you so.... _interested_?”

 

In response Sherlock's voice slipped a little lower, his whisper just slightly menacing as he tilted his head to the side like a feral cat taking stock of his prey. His teeth glittered almost in an imitation of fangs as his eyelashes fluttered with mock innocence.

“What did you expect him to tell me? Keeping secrets again brother dear? What did you threaten the poor man with to try and coerce him into pushing me away?”

 

His elder brother snorted, as if having to 'convince' someone to push Sherlock out of their lives wasn't exactly difficult to do. Then he reclined back into his chair defensively, cooling his gaze as he let it drop in feigned disinterest to the knuckles of his hand. His voice was low.

 

“Threaten John Watson? Not at all, I wouldn't dream of threatening _him._ However, there are.... _friends_ of his that it would do you good to know about.... People that may affect you in the future...”

Sherlock frowns, running through the conversation he had with John not to long ago. His response sounds rude, but he believes from John's explanations anyway that it is the honest truth.

 

“John doesn't have any close friends.....”

 

His brother's smile is practically predatory. Stretching across his face as he flexes his fingers over the handle of his umbrella. Sherlock imagines suddenly staining the front of that suit with tea, if only to see his scowl and perhaps to burn him. 

 

“Not that he knows of..... But rest assured brother, they are more _real_ than you or he even realize....”

 

And with those words Sherlock's eyes flick to the file again, hands twitching just slightly as he considered the information laid out before him. On the one hand, he was almost desperately curious about why his brother was so interested in John. After all, even though he was his flatmte Mycroft rarely showed so much distress over Sherlock's choices. Instead he often chose to Mother-Hen from afar, John being the first person Sherlock had ever seen actively become warned about.

 

What could John, a relatively honest man with a past history of military service, have done to make his brother so uneasy?

What kind of secrets could someone who quite frankly sucked at lying hide? Especially from a man who made a living finding out the worst secrets about people.

 

His thoughts break off again as this time Mycroft's phone rings, humming in his pocket. His elder brother rolls his eyes and reaches into his pants, pulling out the phone and looking at faint surprise at the number. When he picked up, his voice was even.

 

“I thought you didn't take my card.”

 

Silence. Someone speaking on the other line. Sherlock listens and thinks he hears a vaguely Welsh accent. He frowns slightly.

“Trouble in paradise Mycroft?”

 

His older brother looks at him levelly, apparently still listening to whatever the other person on the line had to say. Then he holds out the phone to his brother, eyes crackling in the light as he smiled thinly.

“They want to talk to you.”

 

… _.They?_

 

Sherlock wondered. His hand automatically reached out to grasp the phone, long fingers curling about its' rectangular frame even as he held it up to his ear.

His voice was laced with suspicion.

 

“Who is this?”

 

To the Detective's utter surprise, a growling and yet familiar voice responds. Its' laced with a Welsh accent, and its' far angrier than Sherlock's ever heard it before, but there's no mistaking the lilt to it. The base tone.

John, in a completely uncharacteristic string of profanities, barks orders at Sherlock Holmes.

 

“You better get down to Tesco's, or we're going to have a problem.”


	5. A Manifestation Of Rage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> had to reupload this... hopefully now it works better :3 sorry for the inconvenience if you had any! <3
> 
> comments/ kudos/ animal sacrifices are appreciated  
> (don't actually sacrifice anything though or I will be horrified)
> 
> <3

 

 

Conrad didn't know why he was out, and that was not good. 

Not good at all.

If he didn't understand things, he got angry, and Conrad knew getting angry with him was not a good thing.

He didn't _understand_ , because this was not how it usually _worked._

He blinked angrily as he roughly shrugged off the person's arm who was trying to help him up off the floor, glaring about him as he struggled to make sense of exactly where he was. Because if he was awake, then surely there must be some kind of battle going on. Because Conrad wasn't allowed free reign unless The Body was in danger. That was an iron rule that he had willingly participated in, because to be honest Conrad _did not like to be out._

Now he found himself not in the middle of some battle, nor under threat, but in a quiet store. He looked about slowly, noticing how many of the customers were eyeing him strangely. He frowned instinctively, causing a few to look away now that they suspected he was okay.

 

“Sir, do you want us to call someone?”

 

There was a woman beside him, from the man's brief and courteous glance through his memory, he knew she was not someone John had acquainted himself with. A stranger then. He scowled, biting back a vicious retort as he rose lithely to his feet, leg not even twinging in the slightest. (Though that man in the coat had somehow cured John of that affliction, Conrad would grudgingly give him that much.) He ignored her helping hands and stood on his own, attempting to map out the store like he used to do with the desert when he was in unfamiliar territory.

 

The real question was, what was he to do now?

He wasn't like Claude, who liked to play games or go to the park.

He didn't have dreams or goals.

Only instinct.

He had no real ambitions or desires, other than to protect and the ever-itching ache to hit something always buzzing down his spine and underneath his skin. In fact he could consider hitting someone _now_ if people continued to stare at him like he was a bloody piece of _meat_ on a good price. Completely ignoring the woman's feeble objections to his movements he stood, knowing that Daniel would give him a chewing out if he got them all arrested. Not that they hadn't gotten a night or two in the drunk tank before, but violence tended to have charges attached to the end. Conrad wasn't necessarily the brightest of the Others, but he knew that much. So he didn't strike out, and instead went outside of Tesco's and tried to pinpoint exactly _where_ he was. Of course, he didn't account for the sheer _noise_ that central London presented him as he stepped out the front doors and was assaulted with the screeches and purrs of a hundred or more cars whizzing by on the street. He recoiled instantly, clapping his hands to his ears and snarling at the utter ridiculousness of John Watson for picking a place so damn populated and _dangerous._

 

Conrad's hearing was sensitive, and already he could feel a ringing along his temple and neck as he stumbled, trying to figure out in his disorientation how to get back to the bloody flat _**221 B.**_

He almost didn't hear Daniel's voice in his head, shouting and struggling to be heard over the rest of the Others who were all writhing and moaning in pain.

 

_**Conrad! Stand down! Let me take over!** _

 

Conrad winced at the noise and leaned heavily against the brick-work of a building, ducking behind an alley and frightening a stray cat before he can formulate a response inside of his head. When he does, it's laced with pain and fury.

 

_ **I'm trying to! It's not working. It's like I'm stuck! I can't shift back!** _

 

He can hear Daniel's cursing, and to his surprise his lips move with him and echo a similar response. Conrad bites the inside of his cheek to force himself to open his eyes, trying to look about and see some kind of solution, or at least a quiet place where he can hide out until John takes back over. He is not made for a City environment, and right now his flesh is crawling with the amount of pollution, smog and _energy_ flowing around him like the aftermath of some huge explosion. His shoulder twinges at the thought, and he snarls when Daniel again counsels inside of his head.

 

_**Call Sherlock.** _

 

_ **What?! I thought we agreed no one was supposed to know-** _

 

_**CALL SHERLOCK HOLMES.** _

 

The soldier's voice boomed in his head, silencing any protest by the sudden crack and desperation in it. Conrad winced and keened slightly, the rest of the Others rippling and murmuring the name over and over again in hectic chaos.

 _CallSherlock **Call** CallSherlock **Call** **sherlock**_ **Call**

sherlockCall _ **sherlock** _ **Call** sherlockCall _CallSherlock **Call** **sherlock**_ **Call** sherlockCall

 _CallSherlock **Call** **sherlock**_ **Call** sherlockCall _CallSherlock **Call** CallSherlock **Call** **sherlock**_ **Call** _CallSherlock **Call** **sherlock**_ **Call** sherlock

CallsherlockCall _ **sherlock** _ **Call** _CallSherlock **Call** **sherlock**_ **Call** sherlock

CallsherlockCall _CallCallSherlock **Call** **sherlock**_ **Call** sherlockCall _Sherlock **Call** **sherlock**_ **Call** sherlock _CallSherlock **Call** **sherlock**_

**Call** sherlockCallCallSHERLOCK HOLMES-

 

“All _right!_ ”

 

Conrad finally snapped, cutting off the distressed shouting with his own booming voice. Swearing obtusely he rifled in his pockets, trying to figure out where the hell John put their phone. Soon his hands closed over the familiar cool touch of metal and he pulled out the infernal contraption, hands clumsily turning it on and dialling the only number that John Watson had coincidentally memorized.

 

One ring.

Conrad tapped his foot with impatience, wishing for a smoke.

 

Two rings.

Inside, Claude whimpered for her big brother. Conrad softened slightly, mentally patting the top of her head before losing himself again in red rage and confusion. He did love Claude. She was his little sister. He didn't like it when she was afraid and he would be sure to shout at this Holmes man for making her feel that way.

 

Three rings.

The Others began to shift in renewed impatience. They wondered if the person they had decided to trust had so abruptly abandoned them. Daniel told them to be patient, but his words were drowned out by the clawing uncertainty.

 

After seven rings Conrad hung up. He could feel John's unconscious disappointment and slight hurt, but he had expected it. Truthfully from what he had observed this Sherlock character had proven to be unreliable.

 

_ **Well. We're boned officially. Now what Captain Clever-Boots?** _

 

Daniel cussed again, obviously stressed. For a moment Conrad thought that the all-powerful leader had finally realized that there _was_ no plan to be used, when the man's Scottish asked with resignation

 

_**You really don't think you can make it home?** _

 

_ **Not unless you don't expect there to be casualties. We have our gun on us, and I won't spare people who get in my way just because they're citizens. I can't and you know it, I was born trigger-happy to begin with.** _

 

A long sigh. Around them London roared, crippling Conrad's basic function to curling into a tight ball against the brick-work, breaths coming out in beats of three, military style. He rocked slightly, as the distressed Others all began trying to shove their way into control, trying to dislodge Conrad from his place. It didn't work, and part of it was because right now everyone was _frightened_ and _angry._ They all knew that those were the things that triggered Conrad's presence, but they couldn't _help_ it.

 

He was the medium to their rage.

Fists tightening, he punched the wall they leaned against once. The strength of the blow split the skin on his knuckles, and blood fresh and warm drizzled down his wrist. The man closed his eyes, still cradling the phone. Daniel, tone annoyed and frustrated but resigned, finally rang out.

 

_**Oh for God's sake fine! Call the card in your right pocket! And hurry before you kill someone!** _

 

Conrad, doing everything right handed unlike John would have, fished the card from his pocket and began to dial the number. When Mycroft Holmes answered and then promptly gave the phone to his brother, the man was thoroughly sick of waiting. He cussed the man with every name he new under the sun, then told him their location. His thick Welsh brogue echoed in the alley, and then all Conrad and the other could do was wait.

 

Wait for Sherlock Holmes to save the day.

Bloody hell, they had only known him for a few months and already they were _depending_ on him. Conrad would have been sickened, if he wasn't so worried.

 

They had just given away their secret to a total stranger.

He could only hope that whatever was happening to them, that the Detective wouldn't kick them out. If they were finally all starting to fall apart, if they were all becoming uncontrollable or _changing_ somehow, the last thing John needed was to be out on the street.

 

****

 

 **Dissociative Personality Disorder:** _Defined as a subject having two or more split identities or personality states that continually have power over the person's behaviour. A rare mental disorder, thought to be brought on due to highly traumatic experiences. Little is known about what causes it due to its' rare nature, but it is thought to be more likely in people with above average intelligence and is thought of as a 'coping' mechanism to deal with events the subject deems too traumatic to deal with themselves._

 

Sherlock was aware of the disorder, as he was with many Human afflictions, ailments and disabilities. In fact as a child he had once spent an entire Summer studying the disorder, at the tender age of ten locking himself away in his tree house and reading large and heavy tomes on the subject with interest. At the time is older brother had scoffed at his fascination, partly because it was such a rare disorder and partly because Mycroft Holmes didn't seem to have the same overwhelming need to _know_ about every single odd quirk the Human mind could develop. Sherlock on the other hand couldn't seem to stop himself. Later, he found that his overly obsessive mind had its' benefits, especially in regards to his job. Now however as his older brother explained to him patiently that John was suffering from a verifiable “split personality disorder”, he found himself quite unsure of what he was feeling inside. On the one hand, a part of him was still very much the little boy. He was overcome with the need for more data, more information.

 

 _Why_ was John like he was? _How?_ As well suspicion held that perhaps Mycroft was just pulling some elaborate joke on him, except the Holmses were never ones to poke fun. How many personalities were there if it was true? Had he met any of them and had just been unaware of the change at the time? There was so much new data that his Mind-Palace was virtually spinning with it, demanding that he get the answers to questions and get them _now._

 

But a larger part of him was silently panicking.

John.

John had called him but it wasn't John.

John was in danger.

 

A sharp spike of something piercing and hot stabbed Sherlock's chest, and he was up on his feet and grabbing his coat before he knew what he was doing, flipping up his collar to make room for his scarf even as his elder brother tried to reason with him. He didn't know why, but he couldn't allow John to be hurt. The thought sent panic washing over him, and Sherlock didn not handle panic well at all. He grit his teeth and tried to dispel it, but Mycroft seemed determined to test him today.

 

“I could just have a car pick him up you know. Chances are his Alter is just a tad confused and disoriented.”

 

“No.”

The Detective clipped out, because whoever had been on the other line had specifically demanded to speak with _him._ Sherlock could deduce as much then that John at least on a subconscious level did not trust Mycroft enough to ask for his help. Though normally he would have crowed at winning that particular point of sibling rivalry, right now his mind was too preoccupied. What could have caused the shift in John's personality? All he had done was gone shopping for groceries!

 

Had someone threatened him?

 

That was when Sherlock's mind jolted forward, and his breath caught in his throat for a second in panic.

_Moriarty maybe?_

But that could mean.....

He was out the door before his brother could even bother to try and calm him with any other false words. Leaning casually on the handle of his wooden umbrella, Mycroft allowed one eyebrow to raise in amusement at his brother's obvious distress. Still so brilliant, and yet so utterly, _utterly_ stupid at times. Blind to his own emotions. He was following after a man that only a few moments ago he had treated as if he were _dull._

Then again Mycroft supposed he wasn't really one to talk, considering he had just been trying to offer Sherlock Holmes highly top-secret information for his benefit. It was a delicate game he played right now, and he knew that. One false move and they could literally be out of the frying pan and into the fire. Not even Daniel was aware of just how _intimately_ tied the British Government was right now with the affairs of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.

His soft words echoed in the emptiness of the flat, and strangely enough he wasn't sure if he was saying them for the benefit of Sherlock or himself.

 

“Caring is not an advantage....”

 

Then he grabbed the file in his hands, thumb brushing over a piece of black and white paper that had wormed its' way out of the organized rubber band. A pity really that Sherlock hadn't seen it, because written in its' block-type print were words that Mycroft would have been sure he would have wanted to know.

All well.

He had offered hadn't he?

 

At least now his younger brother couldn't blame him if things all went to hell.

Though Mycroft doubted they would.

After all, he wouldn't let them.

 

He firmly closed the file in his hands, shutting the words **_Baskerville_** and **_Experiment_** out and once again hiding the secrets best left untouched from the world.

 

****

Conrad could hear the footsteps running towards him. He is surprised that he recognizes their lilt and their timbre, as he has done his best up until now to ignore Sherlock Holmes and his very existence. Gritting his teeth, he doesn't bother to open his eyes as the Detective bolts from the cab he's taken and unerringly towards the alley he's tucked himself into, deep baritone shouting over the noise of London in exclamation.

 

“John!”

 

_No._

Thought Conrad, but he didn't answer. Instead he concentrated on keeping his breathing even as out of the corner of his eye he saw the lanky young man crouch beside him, eyes narrowed slightly in caution. When Conrad turned minutely to glare up at him, something in the Detective's eyes changed. They cooled slightly in their desperation, and his voice was now low as this time he asked.

 

“.....John?”

 

His Welsh accent brings little doubt by way of answer as the man gruffly replies.

“Just get me the fuck home before I lose my mind. And do you have a light on you?”

 

Sherlock appears to be more than just a little shocked at the rough and acerbic tone in which he is being addressed, and Conrad notes that even though he hides it well his blue-green eyes dart over his face, trying to see an echo of the kind Army Doctor underneath this hardened and bitter man. Conrad stared back at him without fear, right hand still holding out for a smoke impatiently as he tried to ignore the pulsating ache in his head. It was starting to fade now, but it still hurt like hell. When the Detective did speak, it was slow and cautious, as if he was facing a wild animal. Which he might very well _would_ soon, if he didn't give him a bloody _cigarette._

 

“John doesn't smoke....”

 

Even so he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, tossing one to Conrad's capable fingers. Next comes a lighter, and the blonde man takes both with glee as he lights the end of the fag and inhales deeply, blowing out rings of smoke out into the air and almost groaning in relief as the nicotine swam in his system. His cobalt-blue eyes fluttered closed, and for the first time since he had Shifted over Conrad smiled. It was a hard sort of thing, and did not speak much of John's usually easy grin. His voice rumbled in a chuckle before he bothered to deign Sherlock with a proper reply.

 

“See that's the thing. I'm _not_ John.”

 

Then he laughed raucously, and Sherlock realized then and there that he may have his hands more full than at first he had thought.

 

“ _Surely_ even _your_ mind can figure that much out. I thought you were some kinda genius after all...”

 

Then Conrad in a rare display of amusement winked at the man, and took one last inhale of sweet smoke before he ground the light under his heel. Sherlock almost thought that he could get along with this strange new personality, until the man's John-blue eyes darkened and he growled

"Now. Explain to me why the fuck I shouldn't kill you as soon as we get back to the flat."


	6. The Games We Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this chapter, as the next once will be lots of mind-games and Daniel and Sherlock begin to toy with each other XD
> 
> Thanks so much for the lovely comments/kudos you've given me, I love them all so much :3
> 
> please don't hesitate to tell me what you think!  
> <3

 

 

It was an interesting thing, Sherlock thought. Seeing someone who almost acted and had every appearance of a person you had thought you had known fairly well (better than well, he had known John Watson like the back of his hand or so he had thought) yet was like an entirely different person. To have similarities, and yet see what can only be described as a _stranger_ waltzing about in the skin of your flatmate. Like a flesh suit in a masquerade of twisted intent.

Though the personality before him didn't seem like the type to waltz exactly, or even dance for that matter. Since arriving back at their flat, the man before Sherlock had barely barrelled past Mrs. Hudson (something John would never had done and which Sherlock, uncharacteristically apologized to the old woman for) before marching to John's room in military-like footsteps and slamming the door shut in the Detective's face.

For a moment, Sherlock had just stood there blinking. Unable to quite connect the fact that John had not only become _not_ John, but that _not_ John was apparently an irritable git who wasn't about to talk to him any time soon. Then he jumped as a horribly loud crashing noise sounded from behind the door, like the bed was being torn apart by its hinges.

 

Inside, Conrad was trying his best to control the rush of excited chattering inside his head. The noise came as he shoved John's computer amongst other meaningless crap off of the bed, flopping down on it and covering his ears in a vain attempt to end the endless noise reeling off in every corner of his mind. He hadn't actually deliberately shut the door in Sherlock's face, that had been Daniel, but there was no way to tell the coat-man that because already he could feel his hold on The Body beginning to slip. Except unlike usual, John was not Waking Up to take over. Making a mad scramble as several personalities wanted to handle the problem differently. He could feel Sneak pushing for a turn, as well as some of the youngers. Even _**He**_ was slowly uncoiling, interested mildly at the energy bouncing around in their head.

 

_**Conrad! What's going on? I need you to focus.** _

 

Daniel growled in his ear, the blonde man twitching and snarling in response as he curled his knees up to his chest. The bed was soft, but it made his skin itch. He shouldn't be here, he was a bomb ready to go off in a cottage tea party. He was used to deserts and battles and fists flying through the air. Alcohol bottles and knives were common place for him, not this soft expanse of tangled quilt and cotton.

 

_ **I don't have a fucking clue! All I know is that I don't have much time left and the Freak outside is going to want answers! Someone take over that's qualified to handle a pretentious ass!** _

 

_I want a turn! Pick me!_

 

Claude piped up suddenly, and Conrad snarled a verbal and emphatic “NO.” that made Sherlock flinch slightly away from his intent listening at the door. The voice sounded like John, but raspy and rougher. Like a person who smoked heavily and shouted orders over gunfire.

The Detective up until this point had heard little but quiet noises of suffering, but now he couldn't quite stave off his curiosity as slowly his hand came up to grip the door handle. He couldn't help but be just slightly unnerved by the sudden shift, and a part of him irrationally worried that his Army Doctor wasn't going to come back to him eventually. Not that he wasn't also completely fascinated by the change.

 

“John?”

 

He called softly, uncertain of what he'd get in response. It was disconcerting for the darkly-curled Detective to admit, but he was swimming just a little blind in this situation. Like he was wandering into a mine-field blindfolded with his hands tied. All of it had happened so quickly, and the person on the other side of the door was so different from the quiet, tea-drinking man that he had grown accustomed to. Gone was the hauntedness, the gentle smile, and in its' place was something explosive and deadly.

Already his life had been threatened, although he got the impression that the personality that had given him the threat was an angry one by nature and so quite possibly made those kinds of threats quite a bit. Still, that didn't mean he didn't plan on ensuring his promise to end him if he was further provoked. There had been a certain wired grace in John limbs as he had ridden with him in the cab home, like a coiled snake already having been taunted. Like the barest touch could somehow induce a poisonus strike.

He is surprised when John's voice, laced with a fairly calm Scottish accent, drifts through the door. Its tone is strained but extremely different from the Welsh-accented person he had met a moment before.

 

“Just a moment please Mr. Holmes. We are trying to collect ourselves since we've become a little scrambled, and it seems that it's proving to be more difficult than usual.”

 

Clearing his throat, Sherlock found himself nodding in understanding even though it was obvious that John.....er, whoever would not be able to see the action. His Mind-Palace nearly threw up in his head as it scrambled to reorganize itself into something useful and manageable. Apparently as a result he had been reduced to such a state of shock that he was acting like common-folk.

How _boring_ of him.

John would laugh when he came back.

_**Please come back....** _

 

_Stupid. Get your brain together._

 

Though he's not exactly adept at social cues, Sherlock feels like perhaps there aren't exactly any fixed line of manners for when your flatmate suddenly revealed that they had a mental disorder that made him have multiple versions of himself come to life inside his head. The Detective figured he might as well try to give it a shot. He knocked again on the door.

“Is there anything....I can do to help your situation? Help...John?”

 

“Yeah you can _fuck off_ and go make some tea before I decide to throw you out a window!”

 

The Welsh voice was back for an instant, rough and feral and dripping with violence. Sherlock took a step back with his arms raised above him in an unconscious act of surrender before he turned to amazingly, go do as he was told. No sense in poking a bear with a stick after all. There was nothing he could do in this situation, despite how his brain screamed at him and demanded action be taken. He went downstairs.

 

As he leaves there is a loud and sharp rebuke, though not towards Sherlock. Presumably towards whoever made the threat to his well-being in he first place.

“Conrad! He is not a danger to us. _Stand. Down._ ”

 

_I guess there's insubordinate people wherever you go, even inside a person's own mind._

 

Sherlock mused to himself, tossing his coat onto a hook reflexively and suddenly itching for a cigarette. However he knew that if John came back to himself, he'd be angry. In fact, he might be angry in any case as it was, considering he would probably taste the nicotine in his own mouth and smell it on his clothes. Then there was the whole “Secret” being out, if John was even aware of his condition. Not everyone was, from what Sherlock remembered in his studying. Some people lived for years, not even considering the Blackouts as anything other than exhaustion or coincidence. Some people didn't even Blackout, but were aware of what was going on the entire time. It was a complicated condition with little actually known about it. His mind whirred with analyzation, allowing himself a small smile at the fact that at least this was _interesting._

_Fascinating._

 

John.

But not John.

Now that the initial surprise was fading, the Scientist within Sherlock was dancing about like it was Christmas morning. It was rifling through the contents in his head, drawing out everything he knew about Dissociative Disorder and splaying it out like the hands of a card deck.

Though a greater part of his mind still advised caution. After all this was no normal specimen, this was _John._

And though it would pain Sherlock, possibly drive him _insane_ with curiosity, he'd back off if John asked him to. Because he had been alone for a very long time, and had secrets of his own, and the truth was he didn't want to lose the strange and wonderful relationship he had with the man. John didn't judge.

He listened.

He was silent when people were normally loud, and spoke when Sherlock needed someone to converse with to shine better. To become even greater. Yes, if it came down to it, he'd sacrifice his curiosity if only to make John happy.

..........But only if _John_ asked. None of the..... Alters.....

After all, he owed _them_ nothing.

 

The thought was probably a bit not good, but at that moment, Sherlock really couldn't find it in him to entirely care just yet. In his mind right now there was John, and then there were the Others. Black and white until proven otherwise. After all, Alters could be harmful to the host. He had seen studies where some cut their bodies and the Core personality had no idea why they were bleeding out on the bathroom floor.

He wouldn't let that happen of course, but the thought was still there, potent and uncomfortable because it sent a white-hot spike of _something_ coursing through Sherlock's chest.

 

So he stuck another nicotine patch on his arm to add to the two he already had on him and paced, turning the length of the living room twice before circling over to the kitchen to set the kettle to boil. He has set two cups out to steep and has organized the living room into some semblance of order when the pained noises finally stop inside John's bedroom from upstairs, and a silence overcomes the house and permeates into the very walls. The footsteps that come down the steps are measured, echoing in Sherlock's ears in a way that is not the familiar trudge of his flatmate. It is too edged, too precise, and has the clipped sort of a gait that is almost a march. There is no hint of a limp, and not even an echo of a cane. It walks down the stairs, not stopping and not speeding up even slightly. Determined but reluctant.

Sherlock found he could analyze even a personality that was part of the construction of the mind, apparently.

Always good to know.

He sipped his tea, curled into the expanse of his chair in wait for whatever would come.

 

Slowly, John's form stepped into the living room, shoulders straight and spine stiff. Jaw clenched but not in anger, more like in a formal professionalism. All hints of haunted Nightmares or sleepless nights shed in the form of a soldier meeting the enemy for the first time. His normally expressive face was in a startilingly blank mask that Sherlock wasn't sure he liked.

 

Daniel looked at the man before him, taking in Sherlock's careful expression, and the twisting emotions lurking in those eyes that he could hide from most. But not The Body, because John Watson knew Sherlock Holmes.

Knew him better than he knew himself.

And of course as a result, the Alters knew him as well.

So the soldier saw it, the fascination and the shock, the carefully masked fear of something unknown.

Also the spark of adventure.

Scottish lilt smooth, the man took John's seat and brought the teacup to his lips, taking a sip of orange pekoe before setting his dish back down upon the table. He spoke without any kind of pomp or preamble, and as he talked his hands came to rest on his knees. Hands clasped together and folded themselves, right thumb over left.

The mirror opposite of John.

 

“Hello Sherlock Holmes. My name is Daniel. I don't believe we've met.”

 

He held out his hand to shake. Right hand, fingers relaxed and open. Waiting.

Trying to feel like he wasn't meeting John Watson for the first time all over again, the Detective after a moment raised his own pale, long fingers to meet the soldier's grasp. His low baritone to its credit remained unflappable and cool, despite his inner thoughts racing at half a mile a minute. And because he couldn't help it, he asked again.

 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

 

But he doesn't mean it the same way. His question is much more complicated, but he senses the soldier understands anyhow. In fact there's an intelligence in the man's eyes that is at once like the Army Doctor's and yet not. Sherlock can't help but wonder if he's been monitored all along, and not just by his annoying older brother.

 

The man before him grinned slightly, a roguish sort of smile that was not quite the Army Doctor's and yet was warm and had a tentative and rough sense of comradeship. Though a distant one, not the kind that would shoot someone to save your life. That was how John's smile was. Loyal.

Dependable.

Sherlock realized with a frown that he was getting distracted. He pushed those irritating thoughts out of his head.

 

“Depends on which one of us you ask. I was born in Afghanistan, but not all of us were of course.”

 

And that statement alone raised fifty more questions in the Detective's mind, and Daniel got he sudden feeling that they would probably need a few more pots of tea before this conversation would be finished.

 

****

 

“You have questions.”

 

The Detective looked at the blonde man before him, snorting at the obvious statement and arching a brow as if to say _who in the hell wouldn't?_

Daniel smirked, shrugging his shoulders by way of apology and out of habit checking to make sure the door was closed and locked and that he had a verifiable escape route to John's room if he needed it. Not that he thought he would of course, but it was always prudent just to make sure. Inside of his head, Claude giggled a little and said she wouldn't mind playing hide and go seek later on. Daniel made a mental promise to the little girl that she could once the Detective had gone to bed.

 

“You have questions as well I suppose?”

Sherlock folded his hands under his chin, the gesture mimicked by the soldier unconsciously later on as Daniel tucked his legs up into the chair and against his chest. It was an oddly childish posture, and part of it was due to the fact that Claude was still chattering away in his ear. Sherlock noted how the man's eyes seemed to drift occasionally from their sharp focus, and his own eyes narrowed in thought. To an average observer, it would look like John was just daydreaming. However the Detective could see the preoccupied air of a person listening to something, or someone. It is an expression his flatmate doesn't usually wear.

So, he could assume then that Daniel had been alive for some time, to have perfected that movement even while he noticed how the man took stock of all exits and exactly where he was at all times. There was an alert quality about him, though outwardly he remained reasonably polite and relaxed.

 

“Yes, we do.”

He answered in the plural easily, nodding slightly in affirmation as Sherlock took this into account. His dark curls moved slightly as he tilted his head to the side in calculation, reading off of the man a sense of distance despite his outwardly friendly demeanour.

 

“Will you give me honest answers to questions if I ask them?”

 

In response, the man shrugged with one shoulder concomitantly.

“Will _you?_ ”

He shoots back, but there is no real bite to the question. Just more of a certainty that Sherlock would probably lie for his own benefit as well.

Which isn't entirely untrue to be fair.

The Detective scowled just a little in thought, trying to work out exactly how to go about the dancing game he was playing with a personality that seemed to be fairly bright, not to mention determined to remain as defensive in all ways without coming across as overly dangerous. It was a smooth act, only broken by the fact that Sherlock had _seen_ the other personality that had lingered in John for just an instant. He would be a fool to not take into account what _that_ one was capable of. His voice remained steady.

 

“We could play a game of sorts, if you'd like.”

 

The Detective is surprised as very abruptly the entire manner of John's body changed. Daniel's entire expression slackened into a wide-eyed innocence, and his tightly coiled muscles loosened as John very suddenly relaxed into a cross-legged sitting position, a high, childlike voice passing his lips in utter excitement. It rings out in timid adoration.

 

“A Game? I love Games! Oh can I play? _Please?_ ”

 

As soon as the words were out John's body went rigid again, a scowl running over the childish voice as his legs curled up against his chest again, and the Scottish accent returned sternly like a Father telling off his child. He grit his teeth in the process.

“Claude. Not. Now.”

 

The man looked to Sherlock, wincing like he had just let his pet piddle on the carpet or some such nonsense and apologizing affably.

“Sorry 'bout that. The Littl'uns get excited over certain words sometimes.”

It was obvious by the slightly sour tone of voice that Daniel had not intended for this “Claude” character to come out. Sherlock remained expressionless, but inside he mentally stored that piece of information away in his mind. Like he was doing with the rest of the information the man was giving him. Though it was like pulling teeth.

 

_Can't completely control it then. Could work in our favour if we get a more open personality in control. More analysis later on...._

 

“It's not _really_ a Game I suppose. More of a deal. If I can deduce something, you tell me if it's right or wrong. That way, every piece of information I get is won from my own hard work. Would that ease some of your.... reservations on speaking with me?”

 

Daniel set his empty cup down with a clatter, looking at him disapprovingly with light blue eyes. He let out a patient sigh, and Sherlock for a moment felt like a scolded child as the man scratched the back of his head and glared up at him as if he were an idiot.

“Mr. Holmes I'm aware of your occupation and this game seems hardly fair. You underestimate me and the rest of us if you think I'm going to bargain with you without asking for anything in return.”

 

_So he is at least aware at all times of what's going on. Interesting._

 

Folding his hands against his lips, Sherlock maintained an outer mask of indifference. His fingers tapped lightly together in a slow rhythm.

“Fine then. If I get something wrong, you get to ask me a question. Also if you really don't feel like answering, you get three “passes”. Sound fair?”

 

Daniel mulled the rules over in his head, trying to think through Claude's sulking and Conrad's whisperings that he was going to “get them all experimented on and killed”. The truth was, he had been considering making Holmes an ally now for some time. It had been quite a while since John had made a real friend, and all of the personalities were intrigued, if not openly enamoured by the strange man. Often they chatted to one another, excitement lacing their tones along with suspicion. Daniel had more than once had to hit Sneak's knuckles to keep him from Coming Out, the bloody tramp that he was. It would be safer if the Detective was aware, at least to a certain extent of John's condition. Plus, Daniel was fairly certain he could pull a decent enough poker face that the man wouldn't be able to read the really private stuff hidden under layers of different voices and different names. Thinking, he mentally checked again to see if John was going to wake any time soon. It felt like the man was out like a light, so chances were he wouldn't stir for at least a while longer.

 

Sherlock saw him nodding to himself and smiled slightly, pleased that he had at least hooked the man's attention a little.

 

“Shall we play?”

He purred, and Daniel grinned. The smile was a sharply edged thing, enjoying a challenge. It stretched across his face and made him look more than just a little bit dangerous despite the woollen jumper that hid John's form, and Sherlock was given his first clue as to why John called for danger even though he pretended to hate it as the soldier leaned forward. His blue eyes glittered with a kind of prickling fire. Sherlock realized in some disbelief that it was the same licking flame of _brilliance_ that he often had in the dark hours of the night.

He suddenly realized that just because John's I.Q might be average (though he never really thought of it that way, more like brilliant in a different way) didn't mean his _Alters_ thought in even remotely the same way he did. Daniel read the expression behind his eyes like a book, and in that moment was fiercely glad that so often they were underestimated.

It made the take-down so much better in the end.

 

“Try me.”

 


	7. Innocence In Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, first off I'd like to thank my new (and fantastic) beta Iolre, for being so wonderful volunteering to help me :) seriously guys, I think she's improved this chapter a lot, and I hope that with her helping out my writing quality will improve significantly XD
> 
> Kudos and comments are treasured and I love them :3 
> 
> here we go! *cues batman theme music*

 

 

With the Game beginning, Sherlock decided at first to proceed cautiously. After all, he wanted to test the waters, not blow them up before he had barely gotten started.

Humming briefly in thought, he went for the obvious deduction.

The one that in his mind had already been confirmed.

 

“John has a condition called Dissociative Identity Disorder.”

 

Daniel smiled, the need for reassurance not lost on him, despite the detective's cool tone. He nodded sharply, his eyes glittering in a focused sort of way. It was reminiscent of John when he was watching an interesting episode of Doctor Who, or when Sherlock was saying something especially clever. Like a light glowing softly in the dark blue depths of his eyes.

“Correct, Mr. Holmes.”

 

The detective then went for the next easiest deduction, ticking the prior off of his list mentally of things he already suspected but couldn't actually confirm. The things he thought most people would dance about, but he knew that John wouldn't like him to do so. Not if he could get to the heart of something swiftly. Not if he could reach some kind of conclusion faster.

 

“He has this condition due to some kind of abuse.... Definitely physical although sexual I can't say for certain.....emotional is a given with either of them....”

 

The soldier shifted slightly, and Sherlock's eyebrows lowered in confirmation.

“Both then.”

The Detective allowed himself for a moment of white-hot fury, and then quickly locked the emotion down inside of himself, chained it in place swiftly with a padlock. He could review the immediate sentimental response later in his own time, where he could take it to pieces without causing John worry or distress.

 

Daniel frowned, freezing in his movements as he realized they gave him away. His voice remained bland and detached, but it held the faintest hint of an edge now.

“Correct.”

 

Sherlock folded his hands in front of his lips, eyes fluttering closed in brief thought. Then he refused to linger on the implications of the statement and moved on. He was unwilling to allow this personality to regain any sense of balance in the hope that it would make him give away more than he had antincipated.

“I've counted three distinct personalities so far besides John. Are they the only other personalities?”

 

Daniel grinned, and the detective realized he got his first deduction (though really it was more of a shot in the dark) incorrect. He sighed, cursing mentally as he realized that there was nothing he could do. He gestured resignedly for the man before him to ask away.

 

Daniel briefly consulted with the rest of the Alters in his head, eyes drifting into the middle distance for a moment before a question emerged victorious in his mind. When he came back, he shot his enquiry at the Detective without hesitation.

“We want to know if you suspected anything before now. We thought we were doing a pretty good job at acting, but this is a good chance to learn if we made any mistakes.”

 

Sherlock paused, thinking over the question carefully. When he answered, it was with a sulky sort of surrender that made it obvious that he was being honest.

“Frankly no, I didn't pick up on it. However there were clues looking back. I noticed that John's dominant hand kept switching, but wrote it off as ambidexterity. He doesn't smoke of course, and he keeps his phone away from his keys if he can help it. Little things, habits that make up you and not him. In retrospect I was a fool for not seeing it.”

 

Inside, the Alters nodded to one another in affirmation. Daniel's chin jutted downwards in a brief recognition of the information.

“Yes we've been trying to keep Conrad from smoking for ages. He can't help it though, it relieves a bit of his stress I think,” he murmured softly.

Drinking again from his teacup, he made certain to use his left hand in the process. Sherlock noticed the change and smirked slightly. He mentally catalogued away the fact that this personality at least was a quick learner. Then he moved on.

 

“John is the Core personality I take it? I would say you're probably the leader of the Alters...and probably assume the role of Protector, if I'm not mistaken.”

 

Again Daniel nodded, this time a tiny impressed smile darting across his distantly reserved lips.

“Very good, Mr. Holmes. I protect all of the Alters as well as John, and act as a rational mind for them when under duress.”

 

Sherlock's next deduction came more quickly, then eyes flashing in realization.

“I assume that means that each personality has a role to fulfil?”

 

Reluctantly, Daniel nodded. He thought to himself that he would have to very careful in even what he inadvertently gave away. Mr. Holmes appeared to be much more observant than he had originally given him credit for. There was an aura about the man that reminded him briefly of Sherlock's elder brother, but none of the false pomp and plumage that Mycroft Holmes had held in him. Oh, there was arrogance, but not the oily, smarmy cold. Not as much ice, and more driving, burning determination. It always interested Daniel, how two people growing up together could end up acting so differently from each other and yet in the process accidentally end up exactly the same.

 

The detective grinned widely like he had just been given a Christmas present all tied up with silver bows and bells at the admittance. His hands came rest briefly on his knee before they reached for his cup, sipping his tea even though it had begun to go cold in its saucer.

 

“Oh that's _brilliant._ ” he murmured emphatically, to which the Soldier smirked. Sherlock took some time to observe now, noting the way the man before him sat in a deceptively defensive sort of position. If the personality was telling the truth (which Sherlock was fairly certain he was) then he was sure that Daniel was far stronger than he was openly letting on. The curled position he was in was an act, an attempt to make himself look small and fragile when he really wasn't. After all, John himself had proven himself to be stronger than he appeared. The time he had shot the cabbie had been proof of that. Though now Sherlock wondered if it had really been John at all who had done fired that fatal shot. The thought that it might not have been sent a small note of discord running through his stomach, so he pushed it firmly away.

 

_Delete._

 

A part of him wanted to test that hidden strength, but the detective wasn't stupid. He knew John had fought in the military, and that those skills along with a multitude of other abilities were most likely stored under this personality's control. Coiled muscles were still muscles, even if they were hidden under soft clothes and gentle expressions. He noted how John's leg no longer shook even in the slightest, and how his left hand no longer trembled when he sat with his cup. Daniel's eyes were constantly moving, keeping a sharp watch on the door behind them as well as all available exits from the room. There was a sleeping intelligence in them, and that lead Sherlock to his next deduction.

“Personality Disorders in general tend to only happen to people with acute intelligence as well as traumatic pasts, and though John is far smarter than most of the common drabble he is not exactly Einstein. So I'm assuming he doesn't have access to the full span of his I.Q. Which means there are other personalities- including yourself- that could have access.”

 

“Partly right on that one, Mr. Holmes, so we get to ask you a half question. John does have the potential brain of a genius, it's true, but I have a _different_ sort of intelligence. On a standard test, John and I are about the same level. However, others _do_ have an intelligence that could potentially rival even yours, and some have degrees in things that John nor I can even begin to comprehend. As well there are others with an I.Q below John's, whether because they're too young or it's not necessary for them to possess it. We have what we need. No more, and no less.”

 

Daniel folded his hands together between his knees, eyebrows lowering in consideration of the man before asking his next question. His voice was low and measured, the rhythm of a person used to waiting patiently for action to come his way. The attitude of a sniper. Like the weapon, his questions struck at surprisingly lethal places.

“We want to know why you did the cocaine, but you don't have to tell us for how long or when you stopped.”

 

The detective's face turned into a blank mask, and his answer was immediate.

“Pass.”

 

“We never said you could pass. It was never part of the Game rules.”

 

Sherlock scowled slightly, and his hands twitched as he fiddled absently with the cuff of his shirt. The crook of his arm tingled slightly in memory, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek in order to not recall how it felt to be gloriously strung out beyond any semblance of caring for this world. That was an unfair protest, he thought. Still, he could appreciate the loophole for its deceptive cleverness.

If he closed his eyes, he could still remember that rush, like your stomach was falling out from under you and you were tumbling into an abyss. Except at the bottom was only feather pillows, and they numbed your other senses so that the ones you needed sharpened incredibly to a point. The answer to the man's question wasn't a simple answer of having daddy issues or a tragic story of a broken home.

No.

It was far more complex than that. There was no easy story to tell, and again Sherlock clenched his jaw and glared firmly up at the man who wasn't John. He made his gaze hard and icy.

 

“Pass.”

 

Daniel sighed in annoyance, letting up and sitting back into his chair, rolling his eyes in irritation.

“Fine. But that's the only one you get. Tell us why you get along so well with John.”

 

The detective relaxed slightly, the crease between his brows smoothing over as he answered the question with complete and utter ease. This one he had a clear answer to, definitely. He had figured it out long ago, his Mind-Palace having gone over the question more than a few times.

“He knows what it's like to be in a battlefield all the time. He doesn't make me talk when I don't want to, and as much as I find it irritating he makes sure I don't cross lines of etiquette that I do not understand. He's a....compass, if you will.”

 

_He makes me better....._

He added silently to himself. Daniel frowned, eyes glittering thoughtfully as he looked at the knuckles of his hands. It was a long time before he spoke, but when he did his voice was quiet, slightly rougher on the edges.

“He's never had a friend before. We worry sometimes-”

 

He cut off then, and Sherlock this time was prepared for it as a shudder rippled up the man's spine, and his face once again took a form of innocence and brightness as John's body sat up, crossing his legs in front of him and rewarding Sherlock with a huge and childish grin. Feeling somewhat uncertain, the detective smiled crookedly and back, hesitant. He was unsure of who he'd be greeted with. For all he knew it could be some kind of trap. Quietly, he spoke.

 

“Hello there. Who are you?”

 

A soft, high voice came from John's mouth, its sound bright and carrying the easy timbre of an overly excited child in it. It was no longer in a Scottish accent either, instead seeming to have a cadence that was actually pretty similar to John's. Except younger.

 

“Hiya! I wanted to play the Game.... _shh_ , I kicked Daniel out. _Don't tell._ ”

Sherlock watched in stifled amusement as John pressed a finger to his lips as if begging the detective to keep a secret, blue eyes wide and slightly shy as the personality rocked gently in the chair. Claude, hoping that the man would keep her secret, marvelled over him with wonder and happiness at having successfully ousted her Big Brother from his throne, if only for a while.

 

The giggle that escaped John's lips was high and childlike, and it held a kind of innocent warmth to it that made Sherlock's mouth have to fight to stay in its thin line of stoicism. It was strange; to have John before him, suddenly so bright and vivid and playful. There was a loosened, relaxed note to the man's shoulders that wasn't there normally, as well as an obvious flexibility that the Detective suspected the ex-soldier wasn't aware he possessed. Visible in how the personality sat.

 

Sherlock found himself chuckling at it, the low rumbling noise genuinely amused. Across from him, John's eyes seemed to fixate on his mouth and the noise, like it was fascinating.

 

“Oh really? What's your name? Surely someone so brave must have a name after all.”

 

The personality tittered, John's cheeks turning pink in flattery at being called brave. Claude couldn't seem to entirely hide her bashfulness as she was suddenly overcome by the desire to fiddle away the compliment. Sherlock watched as John hid his face in the collar of his jumper, like a little kid concealing themselves behind his Mother's skirts as he mumbled a reply.

“Claude. I'm Claude.”

 

“Nice to meet you Claude. I'm Sherlock Holmes. Tell me, do you know how old you are?”

 

The little girl huffed then, crossing her arms (John's arms) over her chest and frowning thunderously at the Detective like he had committed some kind of gross offence. For a moment Sherlock couldn't figure out what he had done until she pointed a finger at him in bold and imperious accusation.

“No fair! That's not how you play the Game! You have to guess!”

 

Sherlock had nearly forgotten they were playing a Game. His eyes widened in false surprise and he nodded over-dramatically, apologizing with an act that was perhaps a bit over the top but made the little girl grin and giggle again. He knew he had to keep her talking, because it was obvious this personality would be a lot easier to manipulate. Not that he didn't genuinely think that the little creature was fascinating, but he needed information at this point.

“I'm so sorry, Claude! I totally forgot! Silly me. Let's see....”

 

Sherlock set to analyzing. He could tell the personality was fairly well-spoken, but wasn't old enough yet that it could completely dispel the restless movement that came with small children, given in the slight rocking movement and the way their fingers tapped incessantly. He could also tell that Claude was a little bit shy of him, yet not so shy that she seemed afraid. Just.... cautious. Like Daniel, she also mapped out the exits about her with a nervous sort of energy. Except she was less subtle about it as her head swivelled about to do so. Finally, Sherlock tapped his knee lightly once with his long fingers, gaining her attention again as he said in a triumphant and warm tone

“I'm going to say you're.... six years old!”

 

He watched as John's dark blue eyes widened in awe and amazement. An expression Sherlock knew actually quite well.

“You're right!”

 

Claude blurted out in glee and amazement, clapping slightly as she bit down on her thumb-nail to keep from babbling in excitement. She was always told she talked too much, and she didn't want to annoy Mr. Holmes. Not when he was being so wonderfully entertaining. Conrad might scold her later, but it was worth it. Against her finger, her words came out slightly muffled.

“John is right, you _are_ brilliant.”

 

Sherlock beamed slightly at the words, not as afraid of showing his emotions in front of a small child. He laughed good-naturedly.

“I suppose I am sometimes.”

 

“You're almost as smart as big brother!” She grinned at him then, and the darkly-curled man leaned forward in interest, blue eyes flickering in what he hoped would be mistaken as idle curiosity instead of burning desire to _know._ Sure enough, Claude was too excited to read his energy correctly.

 

“Do you have lots of brothers?”

She nodded enthusiastically before she could help herself, looking at Sherlock with delighted blue eyes. The detective watched as his friend shook his head in affirmation emphatically, the dip of his blonde head a full-body kind of movement.

“Oh yes! I have three of 'em. And a sister, and there's Sneak, but he's not allowed to be my brother right now cause he's in trouble.”

 

She bit her thumb in focused determination, wanting to peel the skin that was surrounding the nail. She looked up at Mr. Holmes, who seemed to be thoroughly interested in what she had to say. It was a curious sensation, to be listened to. Nobody else in her head ever paid any attention to her unless she was scared, and though she was often scared she wished she didn't have to be just to get someone to notice her. She wished they would listen to her suggestions, even if sometimes they weren't always serious. Just once she'd like to play a game of Twister, or be able to go to a fair. Her older sister had it tougher, she supposed, since she was older, but it still felt as though she was a very small voice in an ocean of noise surrounding her. Because of this, she eagerly found herself providing Sherlock with more information.

 

“Daniel's one of my brother's, but he's always telling me what to do. It's real annoying, even if he's usually right.” She conceded the last bit reluctantly, and smiled when the detective smirked in understanding at her petulant tone. It was strange, but she wasn't afraid of Sherlock. It was true she had watched him be all sharp and growly to John and even some of the others, but when he talked to her he was all softness and kind tones. He didn't yell at her for biting her nails, and didn't tease her for her voice. It wasn't her fault after all, because she was sharing a body with a grown man and her voice sounded perfectly feminine in her own head. He spoke to her gently, more gently than any other man Claude had ever met before, and somehow she found his presence unusually soothing.

 

Still, she knew to keep her distance, if only because Conrad told her not to trust people easily, and her Big Brother was always looking out for her. So when Sherlock leaned forward she leaned away automatically, the nail of her thumb snagged between her teeth and breaking as she bit into it. The man before her dropped his voice into a conspiratorial tone, eyes glittering with empathy.

 

“I have a brother too. He's a lot like that too, always meddling. In some ways he's more parent than sibling.”

 

Claude nodded energetically, feeling that this described Daniel to a tee. Her thumb moved away from her mouth so she could gesture animatedly, voice high and loud in the flat.

 

“ _Exactly!_ He's just like that! He always thinks he knows best. The only one he doesn't order about is-”

 

And then she paused, pouting suddenly. Sherlock watched as her eyes got foggy, vision trailing off into the distance as she listened to the voices now creeping into her ears. She scowled blackly as from inside her head she could feel Daniel tugging at her, trying to uproot her.

Telling her off as usual.

 

“Even now he's chewing me out. Even though I'm not doing any harm....”

 

Sherlock eyed her curiously, voice edged with fascination and interest.

“Can you always hear the others Claude? Or is it just sometimes?”

 

The girl shook her head, trying to dislodge Daniel's nattering inside her ear so she could respond. Outside, John's body jerked slightly in response, twitching with annoyance.

 

“Sometimes. It's like a radio. Sometimes we're all on the same station, but sometimes we're on different freq- frequen- different waves.” She struggled to say _frequencies_ , unsure of its pronunciation. There was a slight pounding in her head from resisting.

 

“Like sometimes when Conrad's really, _really_ angry he shuts himself off into another wave so I don't hear him shouting, or if Sneak's being stupid they send me away so I don't hear his thoughts. That sort of thing. My Other Brother practically _lives_ in his own wave-”

 

She cut off then, Daniel's voice having reached a shout in her head. Claude winced, looking up at Sherlock apologetically.

“I hafta go.” She mumbled sulkily. “The Others are cross with me now for ruining their Game.”

She waved slightly with her left hand, rubbing at her eyes as she was suddenly overcome with a desire to sleep. It was the Blackness calling her, she knew. The place where she drifted sometimes, not quite awake and not yet asleep. Alive but stored away somehow....

“Nigh' Mr. Holmes....”

 

“Please, wait. Before you go,” Sherlock said hastily, mind scrambling for one last answer to his question.

“Claude, what's your job?”

 

She looked at him curiously for a moment, wondering how the strange man knew about her burden.

_Daniel, probably._

 

In John's eyes was a flicker of something dark.

Something vulnerable as the little girl unwillingly remembered. Sherlock felt his heartbeat drum a little bit faster in response, his hands tightening as they pressed against his lips. She was silent and still for a long time, staring vacantly into space. The Detective for a moment wondered if maybe he had pushed too far.

 

Finally, she took a deep, explosive breath. It made John's chest heave, his blue eyes fluttering closed as if dispelling the ghost of a nightmare. Claude mumbled her answer as she faded away, tone quaking slightly as she whispered her purpose. The terror in her voice sent a faint chill trickling down Sherlock's spine.

“Fear, Mr. Holmes. I am John's Fear....”

 

When Daniel opened his eyes again, he scowled accusingly at Sherlock, eyes narrowing into slits. His voice was freezing. The detective felt his fury at him like cold nails sliding down his back.

“That, Mr. Holmes. Was low.”


	8. Pale Reflections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sort of a smaller chapter, but I felt it was needed as an inbetween....  
> my beta is currently away, and soon I will be going on a temporary hiatus....
> 
> however I will try to get one more chapter in :3
> 
> enjoy! comments/kudos are loved and cuddled :D

 

 

 

There are times when even an average person; let alone a man like Sherlock Holmes, could read the killing intent in a man’s eyes even when it was carefully hidden by a mask of indifference. When said man’s gaze could strip you of your very flesh and leave you feeling exposed and fragile, your pulsing organs laid bare before him and quivering with vulnerability. The detective himself hadn’t ever exactly been a person to soften his gaze either, but for a moment he could understand the way John sometimes shifted uncomfortably underneath his harsh scrutiny. Why he would occasionally snap at him to _‘Stop it’_ even though all Sherlock felt he was doing was observing. Of course; he handled it much more smoothly than the average person would, keeping his gaze level and his posture unrepentant. He let himself stay relaxed and cool and callous, Inside however he squirmed. Because even if he could normally retain an air of aloof reproach when scrutinised by most people, he was entirely unused to having the pair of dark blue eyes that he knew so well staring at him with such sharp-eyed clarity.

 

Daniel could give a whole new meaning to the saying _‘To glare a hole in someone’_  as he furiously rose to his feet, the harsh movement sending the china on the table shivering with a fearful tinkling. Like a snake uncoiling from its sedentary perch he bared his teeth, leaping in a movement that was far faster thanSherlock even expected to stalk away silently to John’s room. His voice was curt and frigid as it called behind him.

“This Game is over.”

 

It took Sherlock the barest second to process what that statement meant. Then he was on his feet, leaving the now empty twin cups on the table as he called out to John’s receding figure.

“Wait....wait Daniel!”

 

The Scotsman halted on his heel before turning, blue eyes burning with mistrust. His voice was low and dangerous.

“Don’t follow me Holmes or I just might hit you.”

 

Sherlock halted, but he continued to call after him.

“What will you get in running away? You wanted information on me, right? Are you admitting defeat already?”

 

Daniel paused, face half-turned towards the detective. His blue eyes were lowered to stare at his hands, which were clenched tightly at his sides. His jaw was a hard line of tension as he spoke.

“My job is to protect all of the Alters. You deliberately manipulated one of them into giving you information and then proceeded to step outside my guidelines for the Game to serve your own ends.”

 

Sherlock had the decency to at least look a little sheepish before he straightened. Face taking on an unrepentant mask, the detective shrugged.

“So.... you admit defeat.”

He repeated.

 

The soldier made a disgusted noise at the back of his throat, rolling his eyes and stalking off towards John’s room. Under his breath, choice obscenities could be heard. Sherlock however wasn’t one to be easily deterred, and he reached out and grabbed the man’s arm before he could go upstairs to grab his coat to leave.

 

The reaction is instantaneous.

 

The detective is thrown halfway across the room in an expert toss, body crashing into John’s chair and flipping over it clumsily so that his head cracked on the hardwood. For a moment Sherlock saw stars, and he gasped in surprise more than pain.

_….He actually hit me.... **John** hit me....._

 

He only had a second to gather his somewhat petulant and stunned thoughts before he was being hoisted up into a sitting position by his shirt collar. John’s blue eyes burned into his with fury as he was lifted in a rather startling display of physical strength. Daniel’s Scottish lilt was low and threatening, hissing into his ear.

“You’re very lucky right now I have so much control, that little stint almost brought out something decidedly nastier than the likes of me. Next time, think before you reach out and touch; Mr. Holmes. We do not enjoy physical contact.”

 

Though the detective wasn’t one to cower, his face turned slightly paler before flushing in embarrassment. He privately berated himself over his own impulsiveness and waited patiently for the man’s hands to loosen from the fabric of his shirt. When they did, Sherlock slowly righted himself to his feet. He ducked his head slightly in silent apology. Still, he found himself pleading with the blonde soldier, suddenly overcome with the fear that he has done something unforgivable. That he would turn around and John would be gone, and he’d be without his blogger and, dare he say it, friend. Daniel blinked at the shockingly placating tone the detective used, his voice low and as ashamed as Sherlock Holmes would ever get....

 

“Please don’t leave. It was not my intention....”

 

He trailed off slightly, shoulders shrugging as he lost the words he wanted to say. It was hard to be eloquent, when the eyes of a stranger peered at you through the mask of a companion. Sherlock was overwhelmed with a strange sense of loneliness, staring at the blank and impassive face that was and yet wasn’t John Watson. He quite suddenly found himself wishing that Daniel would disappear, and that his good doctor would return to him. These were not John’s kind hands that left him, nor John’s lingering blue gaze. This was strange and new and fascinating, but it also left Sherlock feeling ultimately dissatisfied and worried.

 

The unhappy set of the man’s shoulders is evident to the detective. As is the reluctance to listen to his words. Yet Daniel’s teeth snag on his lower lip in indecision, and for just a second, Sherlock glimpses John underneath it. Like seeing underneath a veil.

When Daniel speaks, his voice is quiet.

 

“He’s beginning to wake up. When he does, he won’t remember anything....”

He looked at Sherlock levelly, eyes sparking in command.

 

“This is your one and only second chance. When John wakes up, you tell him _nothing_. Capice?”

 

Sherlock’s brow furrowed, and he opened his mouth as if to argue. However a snarling Welsh accent overtakes John, and his body becomes looming and threatening despite his stature.

_“It wasn’t a fucking request!”_

 

The detective, deciding to perhaps let small battles lie, closes his mouth tightly. A reluctant nod is all he has to give before Daniel is loping up the stairs. Sherlock is left to the quiet and cold silence of the lower floor of the flat, his hands in his pockets and a small scowl of unease fighting the wall of ice that is his features. Upstairs, Daniel lies down carefully on the soft bed. He lets his legs hang over the sides, so his feet just brush the floor. His hands rise up behind his head and cup the back of his neck, and he stares at the ceiling.

He is lost in a sea of conflicting thoughts.

A child wandering in the complicated maze of his own head, so many voices clawing at him, begging his ear. He must listen to them all, even the ones that aren’t Alters. The ones that just whisper, John’s deepest desires and darkest fears and worst memories and sweetest dreams. He is the only one that can hear them all.

 

It has always been this way, the constant chattering in the soldier’s head. He supposes that if he believed in a God, he might think that he was chosen for the job because he was the only one that could handle such a racket. To him it was home, and long silences drove him to madness. He was the restlessness in John, the part that itched to be back in a war zone. The half that desired to fix other’s wounds amongst bombs and shrapnel, and become filthy with sand and gunpowder.

It was strange, how the protector could long for danger.

How he in the end was the one to long for the weight of a gun in his hands.

Genius needed an audience, but so did bravery.

 

Without something to save, Daniel was nothing.

But he had known this from the beginning of his life.

 

Downstairs, the soft lilting notes of Bach’s Partita No. 2  began to drift into the air eerily. It was a lonely piece, something sad and achingly sweet in its tone that spoke of a solitude so profound that it could be felt in every slide of the strings. Daniel had never been one for classical music, but in that moment, he felt that perhaps the tone of the song described all of them with perfect clarity. Alone, and yet longing to find purpose. The frail hope in the notes suggesting a wish, a want to be more than they were. It became stronger the longer the notes danced, contrasting sharply with the poignant sadness.

 

But he was already beginning to slip into sleep, and John was coming forward into control. In the end, only one personality was allowed that purpose, that life. Only one could at the end of the day claim the right to live, and he was so unaware of the gift that was. The Alters shifted and muttered at the knowledge of it, chafing in their own confines like animals kept in the iron cage that was the human mind. Illusions, that’s all they were.

Pale reflections of one man who did not know the complexity of his own personality.

 

Daniel caught himself hoping that perhaps, just perhaps, the man downstairs could show John even a glimpse of the purpose he had given up on so long ago.

He fell asleep to the swell of the crescendo, and John woke just in time to catch the tail-end of a strangely hopeful note drifting through the air of _Sarabande._

 

****

 

When Sherlock heard thumping about upstairs about a half hour later he tensed, unsure of who to expect shuffling down the stairs. However just as the last notes of the song he was playing hovered in the air, he listened closely to the fall of the footsteps. A slight dragging sensation, meaning the limp was back but not prominent. Light footfalls, indicating no aggression. Something got bumped, and a muffled and halfhearted curse undid the last knot of tension in the detective’s back. Sherlock smiled slightly, reaching for the cloth in his violin case to rosin his bow.

 

Yes, that was John.

 

He’d recognize John’s tone anywhere, even if he were blind and wandering through a deep forest on a frigid night.

 

The ex-army doctor came down the stairs yawning, stretching his arms one by one by pinning them across his chest even as he came to see Sherlock packing up his instrument. His smile was sleepy, but it was warm. It was such a welcome sight that for a moment the detective allowed a small smile to pass of his own, until he saw that John was surprised at his immediate response. Sherlock turned away and feigned interest in the horsehairs of his bow, casting a critical eye across its length as he held it up to his face. John rubbed at his face, shaking his head clear of whatever thought had caused him to pause. His cheeks were slightly pinker than normal as he greeted the detective.

 

“I slept in, sorry. I meant to go get groceries today...”

 

Sherlock to his credit, managed to stay composed at the statement, nodding in affirmation.

“You did. It’s nearly lunch.”

The detective had to resist the urge to reach out and touch the man’s shoulder, half of his brain insisting rather irrationally to make sure that John’s vitals were all in check. After all, he had no idea what kind of effect the Alter’s had on the army doctor’s health. For all Sherlock knew, his blood pressure was rising and falling so swiftly that it could induce heart-attack at any moment. Not that it was likely, but still.

 

John was oblivious to the fact that Sherlock was boring a hole into him with his staring, so used to it by now that he barely flinched away from it anymore. He padded over to the kitchen and opened the cupboard over the sink, hunting about for his favourite cup and saucer while his thoughts ran towards a nice cuppa. He frowned however when his fingers brushed against the empty expanse of counter, and backing up he peered into the living room closely. Sherlock was seated in his favourite chair now, hands folded under his chin in prayer-like form as his eyes roved in thought. Beside him lay the tea tray.

 

“Was Mycroft by while I was asleep then?”

 

The detective was startled out of his reverie, looking at John in apparent confusion as he asked slowly “Why would you ask that?”

 

Sherlock followed John’s line of vision, eyes coming to rest on the extra cup and saucer. Mentally he cursed his own stupidity, deciding to go for the easy half-lie. After all technically, John had deduced correctly. His brother had stuck his foot in the door earlier.

 

He let his expression smooth over into indifference, shrugging in what he hoped looked like agitated sulkiness.

“The fat peon’s always badgering me for something.”

 

John seemed to accept that answer as the lines by his eyes crinkled in amusement, and he chuckled warmly. He walked over to grab the dirtied dishes without complaint, used to Sherlock’s moods and intolerance for cleaning.

The quiet clattering of his busy hands wasn’t particularly loud, but the detective eyes suddenly sparked, and he reached out in annoyance as if to stop John from being such a nuisance. However his hand froze just before he touched him, hovering for a moment before Sherlock scowled and drew back to his seated stillness. John frowned slightly, wondering why the detective was looking at him with such unease.

 

Yet the detective was already on his feet, phone in hand as he texted Dimmock, Lestrade being away. When he looked back at John, any glimmer that might have been vulnerability had already been dissolved. If it had been there at all, it was now impossible to find under the disguise of excitement over the case.

“I have to go to the bank.”


	9. A Wild Child's Grin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so as some of you may know, I am officially back from hiatus! :3 glad to be up and writing again, and excited because this story is beginning to pick up and Ii get to introduce one of the final Alters to meet! >:3  
> Many thanks to by fantastic beta Iolre for turning my gibberish into something legible ^_^ 
> 
> I present the beginning of Sneak's involvement...
> 
> enjoy!

 

 

 

 

John could feel those pale blue eyes warming the back of his neck during the entirety of the cab ride, and he didn’t know why. Sherlock hadn’t said a word since dragging the man along into what was swiftly becoming one of those cases that the ex- army doctor was going to be forced to label as “yet another moment when my flatmate displays a stunning lack of knowledge on social cues.”

 

As it was, the detective leaned back against the leather seat of the cab with his frosty gaze glued to some unseen spot on John’s jumper. Though he didn’t speak, his eyes tore into the shorter man without reservation, seeming to break him apart in that calculating way, peeling back layers of skin to get to the heart. Still he danced about with whatever had sparked his curiosity, something decidedly un-Sherlock-like as he seemed to hold his tongue from whatever it was he wanted to ask. John resisted the urge to squirm, to twitch away from the intense gaze burning into his collar-bone. He had become used to the detective merely being upfront about any questions, his surefire mind constantly rattling off information like a pinball machine set on automatic. One thousand blinking and flashing lights, synapses burning and skyrocketing to a conclusion with cutting precision. Sherlock Holmes wasn’t a subtle person, when he had questions, he got answers.

 

So John was more afraid than he’d like to admit when he finally snapped and turned to face his flatmate with an exasperated scowl.

 

“What? Have I got something on my face?”

 

He didn’t expect an answer, what with Sherlock being Sherlock, so his heart rate began to speed up slightly when after a moment the man’s voice rumbled softly in the dark. His face was partially hidden by the shadow of the cab door, eyes glowing and yet unreadable in their depths. The detective’s hands tightened in his lap almost imperceptibly.

 

“John....”

 

He began, then actually bit his lip, as if he wasn’t sure what to say. John felt like he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs, a feeling of panic welling inside his chest and turning his breathing into harsh gasps. All he could think of was:

 

_Oh God. He knows._

 

And Sherlock could see it. See the fear written all over his flatmate’s face. An odd stinging sensation squeezed his chest as the detective realized that John didn’t want him to know. That John didn’t trust him enough to know his secret. He had thought that perhaps if he could just fess up, tell his friend what he knew and that perhaps somehow, he could help.

 

Because even though Sherlock Holmes cared very little about most people, and he would lie even to himself and say it was only scientific curiosity, it hurt him when he saw how fragile John was. Not delicate like most people, no. The soldier still lingered about him somewhat, even without Daniel’s presence. John had an element of steel underneath the softer shell of complacency, and people were often surprised and more than a little awed when they encountered it. Sherlock included.

 

But then there was also the weariness, the wandering. The lost look John sometimes got on his face when they went for a long time without a case, or when Sherlock said something that was perhaps harsher than usual. Or when his childhood was mentioned, though the detective knew very little of it if he was being honest with himself. Sherlock had lived for a long time alone, and he actually preferred it that way. At least he used to. His parents had sent him away to boarding school the moment they had realized that he would be just as smart as Mycroft was, unwilling to deal with it when it was coupled with his lack of manners and volatile personality. He had grown up alone, cleverer than the other children and unwilling to dumb himself down for anyone.

 

He grew steely in heart and gaze when insults were thrown his way, and by secondary school could effectively dish out whatever was given him with such vitriol that grown adults would flinch. He was unbreakable, impenetrable, and reveled in the sense of being in total control of his own life and fate. He had craved that kind of illusion of independence, and more than anything, he despised relying on another. Even if every once in awhile, his foolish brain would crave to be touched by another person, or to be called endearments by his parents, he got by. He ignored the sensation, drowned it out with addictions and experiments, so that he could maintain his wings. So he could fly freely, unhindered by something as painfully simple as sentiment.

 

The drugs had brought the whole sensation tumbling down though. He had come crashing arse over ears off his throne of power, only to land at the feet of his brother and his hatefully worried scowl. Mycroft had taken away his freedom, claiming such things as ‘love’ and ‘worry’, which was laughable coming from The Ice Man. Sherlock had found himself chained, tied to another person to the point of not being able to spit without a dozen CCTV cameras watching him closely. And it killed him, destroyed a part of him and made him hate a lack of control ~~on things~~ even more. The exact thing he had tried to avoid had come true, and he couldn’t have stopped it even if he had seen it coming, which he was ashamed to admit he hadn’t.

 

Drugs had cured sentiment, but it had stripped him of his control.

 

They had betrayed him, and it was a treachery that still sometimes filled the detective with a visceral agony, as if he had lost a lover or some such idiocy.

 

But that was addiction, and it still sang in his blood to this day. Dormant but not erased. Merely controlled.

 

Control.

 

Sherlock had nearly sweat blood to regain a semblance of that in his life now. It still wasn’t perfect, but he had been able to gather the shattered pieces of his life together and stitch them up by hand. His plasters had been messy, and healing had been slow, but he had never been more secretly proud of himself when Lestrade agreed to work with him, despite his past. It had become the one time he could recall being truly grateful towards another, and even though the D.I still spent an absurd amount of time mothering him, he was respectful enough of Sherlock’s independence not to watch him at all hours of the day. Greg knew the detective wished for his privacy, longed for that sensation of complete solitude, and never challenged it. It was rare in a human being to see that innate knowledge, and so the D.I was added to Sherlock’s small list of people he called ‘tolerable’.

 

Mrs. Hudson was the only other on the list, for reasons Sherlock was reluctant to this day to recall.

 

So when John had arrived, he had been genuinely surprised at how instantly the man had wormed a way past his defence.

 

With little to no effort, John had made not being alone....normal.

 

Sherlock found with a disturbing amount of glee that having someone to bounce ideas on had benefits that he couldn’t have foreseen. That he found himself shining brighter than he had thought possible, and that his brain was no longer quite so aloof from the rest of the world. John, plain and simple John, acted as a conductor of light, bridging the gap between the droves and him. He was a hand to follow, to lead him] into understanding of the little things that had always eluded him. What’s more he wasn’t irritating as he did so. In fact, John made the entire process as painless as running. As freeing as soaring towards the sky. He didn’t act like a chain, as Mycroft had. Even when he was correcting him or challenging him, John didn’t beat Sherlock down from his place high in the sky. Rather, he gently guided him, pointing out the benefits of occasionally touching the Earth and learning how to jog in the land of the dull and grey. Because hidden under the layers of rubble, were minute gems that shimmered with brilliance. John attracted them like a magnet, bringing them to Sherlock like prizes at his feet. Little things, like the rich smell that a morning cuppa could bring, or the special taste of sweat that accumulated on a person’s upper lip when they chased after a murderer in the cold London air. He wasn’t a man of sky, and yet he flew with the detective when called. He did it effortlessly, and then returned to his place back on the ground, prepared for the next time when Sherlock called him.

 

John was the something in a land of nothing, and he grounded Sherlock not like a leash, but like a clasped hand. Warm and reliable.

 

And then suddenly, John wasn’t normal John anymore. He was someone else, many someone else’s, and for a second Sherlock had feared the idea of losing that guide to lead him back to the rest of the world. The other sides of John were fascinating, and they merited further research when there was time, but they did not sparkle like John did.  Instead they were pieces, partial people that had no real purpose and yet together built a strange sort of armor that Sherlock supposed was not unlike his mask to keep people away. They regarded him like an outsider, and did not seem to understand that to the detective, they were the intruders upon his otherwise quirky yet happy way of life. Not exactly enemies, as they defended John, yet not comrades either. They were an experiment and yet they were untouchable, as harming or testing them meant testing John, and Sherlock doubted that would go over all that well. He thought it would be a bit not good to mention to his ex-army flatmate with a dodgy limp and PTSD that there were times he considered (though never seriously) taking John apart piece by piece, just to figure out how such a simple man could be so intricately made to suit Sherlock perfectly.

 

It hurt him, in an odd way, to know that John probably did not feel the same things that Sherlock couldn’t help but notice lingering just under his skin, and just inside his heart. When he spoke, he thought perhaps that John could sense just a little of it, even though he did his best to hide its barb. He stumbled because of it, the weight of his sentiment unfamiliar and heavy on his tongue.

 

“John...”

 

The man peered at him with that terrified face, and Sherlock knew that he was silently asking him not to question. Not to demand an answer for today’s earlier events. The detective wondered just how much John knew of his Alters, or if he was just aware of the blackouts. The marks in time where things happened that he couldn’t remember. But that wasn’t what Sherlock wanted to know, though he could’ve broken the rules and asked. Because he couldn’t lose John, and right now, Daniel and the other personalities were holding the only kind of blackmail that could work on him over his head.

 

The threat of losing his tether.

 

The idea of that open hand being wrenched away.

 

“John.... Do you trust me?”

 

He found himself asking, hoping.

 

Wishing.

 

John’s face scrunched into a look of suspicion and confusion, as if he wondered if this was some kind of trick question. His tone of voice made Sherlock feel stupidly foolish as he responded, his voice laden with what could only be described as blatant incredulity.

 

“What? Sherlock.... of course I do. I did shoot a man for you!”

 

It felt as though a steel rod that had been speared in through his windpipe had been removed at those words. The detective felt the honesty in the sentence, and he had to work to hide his completely unprofessional smile of gratitude. He turned back towards the window, pretending to watch the London traffic buzz by even as he smothered the further questions humming in his brain.

 

_If he trusts me, then why did he hide this secret?_

 

Why would he hide it, after all it’s against his nature to put people in danger, and living with me is risky should one of his personalities decide to manifest...

 

_Can he control his changes to any extent at all? Or is it so completely uncontrolled?_

 

Stress seemed to be a factor....

 

_Did he think I wouldn’t stay if he told me? No of course not, John must be aware that I am somewhat ridiculously attached to him at this point..... He does know right? It’s blatantly obvious to me, but then again I’m me....._

 

John found himself startled from his own thoughts once again by Sherlock’s voice, sounding hesitant and urgent. Like he was afraid of something. Like he was.... anxious.

 

“John... you know that I trust you as well right?”

 

The ex-army doctor blinked, stopping himself just before he turned to gape at the detective in shock.

 

Trust him?

 

Sherlock.... _trusted_ him? Of all people? Really?

 

Then it sank in, and John felt his heart speed up again, but this time not in fear. In something else.

 

Something that should be ignored but felt all so warm and bubbly and good.

 

He could feel a big, stupid grin lodging itself on his face, and a second later the detective’s warm, rumbling chuckle filled the cab. Sherlock, unaware of the revelation he had brought on John’s life, continued to stare out the window. However, his own grin was just as wide, and appearing just slightly.... embarrassed. Pleased, but sheepish about something.

 

About what, John would never know.

 

The detective’s last response was cryptic as they pulled in front of the bank, leaving John feeling as though the man was keeping a secret despite his declaration of confidence in him.

 

“Really John. I can’t believe you didn’t realize sooner. Not just anyone can be a replacement for the skull....”

 

****

 

Sebastian Wilkes was a ghost of Sherlock’s past. A shade that most of the time, the detective would rather he didn’t remember. He was a relic of the darker parts of the man’s memories, and had the same, slightly dodgy smile on his face that he had when they had both been teenagers. John was struck instantly with the tension that filled the room in their entrance, and also by the instant sensation of animalistic hatred that lined the man’s attitude despite his polite enough tone in greeting them. Seb sat behind a huge, polished wooden desk, hands decorated with a single gold ring and wrist donned with a rather flashy-looking watch. However all sense of manners dissipated with a flash of a sharply-edged smile and Sherlock’s very slight flinch in response. Before he opened his mouth, John knew that he’d probably have to be very careful in what he said. If he wasn’t careful, he’d probably find himself being arrested for assault. He tried not to linger too long on what it meant that he’d attack a man over someone like Sherlock Holmes.

 

It was automatic when he corrected the man when he said the word “friends?” with a mocking sneer. More of a technique to disconnect himself from the situation, so he wouldn’t end up hurting someone. A sort of left-over from years of denial of his own last name, as when he had been a child he had refused its title out of a desire to dissociate himself from the tragedy. Unfortunately, John didn’t think long enough before he shot back “Colleague”, inadvertently causing the detective to frown as if he had been struck. John felt to his horror shame that he had accidentally thrown Sherlock under the bus, but there was nothing he could do but grit his teeth and sit as Sebastian gleefully tore a hole into his friend without mercy.

 

Sherlock had expected this really. Sebastian had been bitter for years over their less-than-perfect fallout, ever since Sherlock had ruined his string of affairs with various women by harshly deducing him in front of the entire cafeteria at Uni. Not that they had exactly gotten along to begin with, but that had kind of been the final blow on a long list of offenses.

 

However he hadn’t expected John to completely cut off all ties of knowing him, shutting down almost completely into a protective sort of ball of tension as he sat in the chair next to him. Though he answered each of Seb’s questions directly, his responses were curt and pointed. Those dark blue eyes blazed in silent fury as the man had the gall to ask for their help even while systematically belittling Sherlock in every other sentence.

 

Finally, the meeting was over, and just in time. John could take no more. He all but stalked out of the office, brushing past Seb’s secretary in his haste to leave so he could get some air. Sherlock chased after him without question, coat flapping behind him like a cape as he jogged to catch up to him. The detective’s hand reached out to stop John before he could run out of the bank completely, fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket and spinning him around so he could get a clear look of his face. Sherlock was relieved with what he saw, the worst having come to mind when he had seen John charge out of there.

 

There was anger, sure, but not all-consuming murder in his eyes. His posture was tense but gradually turned into inquiry as he wondered why Sherlock had pulled him about.

 

In short, John was still John, not somebody else.

 

Sherlock couldn’t help but give a small sigh of relief before he analyzed again, taking in the stiff annoyance lining the ex-army doctor’s lips. He frowned in confusion.

 

“You’re angry.”

 

“Of course I am!” John snapped, eyebrows rising in disbelief. He pulled out of Sherlock’s grasp with a scowl of indignation, voice rising slightly but still maintaining itself below a shout.

 

“Why aren’t you upset?”

 

Slowly, it clicked together. Sherlock’s eyes clouded in mystification as he shook his head.

 

“Seb. He angered you.”

 

“Damn right he did! He had no right to say those things to you-”

 

“He’s always like that. I am used to it-”

 

 _“Bullshit!”_ John’s profanity caused a few people to turn from their computers and phones, blinking in scandalized interest at the man who was causing a scene at one of the most expensive banks in all of Europe. He didn’t seem to care, instead wincing in pain and rubbing the edge of his brow as if fighting off a headache.

 

When John spoke again, his voice was a little quieter. Still angry, but sad.

 

“You shouldn’t be used to it. People shouldn’t say these things to you, not when they’re _paying_ you to help them....”

 

The smaller man trailed off, and Sherlock could see a flicker of a painful memory momentarily marring John’s expression. The lines of tension around his eyes deepened. Sherlock made a deduction, muttering it out loud before he could help himself.

 

“You’ve been bullied before. Or witnessed it and done nothing....From the orphanage?”

 

Instead of replying, John merely sighed.

 

“Everyone’s bullied in foster care Sherlock. I’ve got to use the toilet, calm down a little bit. My head’s killing me, to be honest.”

 

“You don’t have to care about what people say to me, John.” The detective said carefully, still not quite willing to let go of the man’s arm. A strange warmth was filling the pit of his stomach, fluttering pleasantly at the thought of John actually being angry at someone for him. Even if it was illogical and impractical, Sherlock couldn’t entirely dispel the surprised flattery at the idea of it if nothing else. His flatmate gave him a long, searching look in response, blue eyes gazing at him like he wished he could explain something to him.

 

Like he wished he could make Sherlock understand why it bothered him.

 

Instead he pulled away, shaking himself out of the Sherlock-induced stupor that had seemed to have come over him. He smiled once before turning away to find the loo, the glance soft and affectionate. The detective watched John’s receding figure with mixed emotions buzzing about in his brain, torn between wishing he could understand and wondering if he already did.

 

****

 

The running water of the sink was loud within the confines of the men’s toilet, reverberating noisily inside John’s pounding head as he splashed water on his warm brow. He winced at the cold droplets, bracing his hands against the frame of the sink and taking a few deep breaths before he looked into the mirror. What he saw made him groan in frustration. His cheeks were pink like some blushing school girl’s, and he looked thoroughly guilty about the entire thing by the tightness about his eyes and mouth. One look, and Sherlock had thoroughly upended his normally reserved emotions and made them as clear as day.

 

Still, John couldn’t help but grin widely, hardly daring to believe it.

 

Sherlock Holmes _trusted_ him.

 

Someone actually thought he was worth having faith in him.

 

It was unreal. Unrealistic. Impossible, because he didn’t even trust himself.

 

Yet the detective had looked at him with complete honesty, those blue-green eyes filled with nothing but truth.

 

John was no genius, he couldn’t always read people properly, but he could read his flatmate without even the slightest bit of effort. And Sherlock had been honest.

 

He had really meant what he said.

 

John supposed he was being just a little bit overly excited as he continued to stare at  the mirror. His fingers flexed against the porcelain sink in thought as he considered the fact that many people had trusted him over the years, if only because they had to. He had been one of the older kids in foster care, and he had been ten when he had first been left to care for younger children while the adults had gone to do various errands and chores. He had been trusted out of necessity, because there had been low staffing in most of the care homes and he had shown signs of being responsible and hard-working despite his ‘condition’. John had also been forced to be trusted in the war, soldiers forced to rely on one another just to survive the night.

 

Yet the difference with this, was that Sherlock didn’t require John for something. He was choosing to trust without any real reason to, and that was something that didn’t happen in a foster home with ten kids, all sporting issues unique to themselves. John had been housed with children that bit people compulsively, stole things with kleptomanic frequency, and even one that had still used a night light at the age of thirteen.

 

To say that he was used to being the best pick of bad options was an understatement.

 

So Sherlock, actually saying that he wanted his presence, that he needed it, made an uncomfortable knot twist itself in John’s throat. It had just never happened before, and like a blind man being told he could actually see all along, he felt disoriented and strange. Off balance.

 

Vaguely, John also noticed that his headache was getting stronger. It was positively pounding inside his skull, and his joy was beginning to be pushed aside for a crawling kind of nausea welling up at the back of his throat. He gagged, lurching forward to spit into the sink, only to have nothing to dispel from his stomach. He hadn’t gotten a chance to eat breakfast, since Sherlock had wanted to get started on the case as soon as possible.

 

Something flashed behind his eyelids, and image that John didn’t recognize. Things blurring together like cards folding in on one another to form a deck that he didn’t know. Smells, sweat and cinnamon and cherry lip-gloss. Tastes, the salt of skin and tongues and teeth and something stronger that John didn’t want to identify. He felt a heat flow over his skin like a wave, crippling his world and sending it into darkness. He realized a second before he lost himself what was happening, and John let loose an involuntary whimper of surprise.

 

He was Shifting.

 

And this time, he suspected which personality was coming out. And he struggled to not let it happen as in horror he realized that Sherlock was still waiting for him outside.

 

“Oh God, no. Don’t....”

 

Unwillingly, a shiver rippled up John’s spine, and his eyes closed. He felt himself being dragged into the darkness. Sleep was calling to him a sweet lullaby. When John opened his eyes again, there was a glitter in those dark blue irises that hadn’t been there before.

 

Sneak slowly looked up at his reflection, a curling smile twisting upwards on his face as he smirked at the simple clothes he wore. He looked about the toilet with interest for a moment, a low whistle coming from his parted lips as he took in the polished handles of the sink. A critical eye swiped over his hands and pockets, taking into account the fact that he had a wallet this time around and that there was more than one exit from the bathroom. A pink scrap of tongue peeked out from his upper lip, and a slightly Irish accent rumbled easily from John’s chest.

 

“Oh. This should be right fun.”

 

Then Sneak tilted his head back and laughed, and with his right hand he pulled out a comb from his pocket, swiping it through his hair in a carefully practiced motion.


	10. Drive and Desire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's a bit shorter :/ apologies. It's a good place to cut off and I've had a lot of schoolwork lately *dies a little bit* My beta is also currently taking a break, so if you see any flaws in my own shoddy editing job, please let me know! ^_^

 

 

London was _ever_ so much nicer than Afghanistan, Sneak concluded as he inhaled deeply a large breath of fresh air, whistling to himself a chipper tune. His hands were in the pockets of his jacket, but they twitched with anticipation as his sharp eyes looked about for a tube line to take. It didn't look like there were any exactly nearby, and he sighed a very much put-upon noise as he realised he'd have to use some of the money that was sitting in John's wallet. Though he personally had no qualms about using a couple of quid to get by, he knew with certainty that already Daniel was watching him closely. Though the other personality couldn't kick Sneak out of control when he was serious about being let out, he'd make the man's life a living hell if he did anything to make John's life harder for him. As it was Sneak knew for a fact he'd be unimpressed with him for so casually ditching Sherlock Holmes, even if Daniel didn't trust the detective as far as he could throw him. He walked to the corner of the rain-muddled street, raising a hand to hail a cab even as he looked at the clothes he wore with mild distaste. 

 

John (or “Johnny” as Sneak sometimes liked to call him mockingly) had frankly terrible taste in clothing. At least, terrible in the sense that they did nothing to flatter the ex-soldier's figure at all. Soft woollen jumpers hid a frame that was still surprisingly fit from the war, long sleeves hiding secrets that only Sneak's many one night stands had seen. Baggy jeans were practical, but they didn't exactly highlight John's rather _flattering_ arse (because Sneak personally thought he was attractive, and therefore John by default was attractive) and hips. When they had been younger, Sneak had even managed to get away with some eye-shadow or eye-liner every now and again, turning his usual blue irises into twin sapphires that could glow under the lights of a club. Of course -the man decided as he glanced at his reflection in the window of the cab he hailed before he slid into it- eye-liner now wouldn't be seen as something quite as attractive. Plus, he was in the mood to try a new disguise, an alias he hadn't used in a while. 

 

His tongue ran over his teeth in excitement, and Sneak didn't notice how a camera trained on the back of his head as he instructed the cabbie to take him to the eastern half of London. The rougher parts, but he felt rather confident in his own sense of safety, seeing as he had military training as well as the fact that Sneak was undeniably brilliant. 

After all, he had managed to escape Sherlock Holmes' notice, and yet simultaneously ensure that the detective would find him. Eventually.

However he might find him too late, and would be left to pick up the pieces.

 

After all, Blue could switch with him when he was finished, and she was... unpredictable to say the least. Sneak's nose wrinkled at the thought of his older sister, and for a moment brief sadness flashed in his eyes and dispelled his grin. She'd need someone to hold her in place.

If only to make sure that no harm came to The Body. Though Daniel would be loath to admit it, Sneak never did anything that could permanently damage John Watson.

He wasn't a moron.

 

And he wasn't heartless.... Even though he didn't put much stock in Human beings.

 

Then again, Johnny didn't seem to want to wake for quite a while yet. A few hours at least, so maybe Blue wouldn't show. It was unlikely, considering Sneak was about to do something she'd no doubt find triggering and distressing, but he could hope. After all, he couldn't help his nature.

Just like she couldn't help hers. 

 

He licked his lips in excitement, a familiar boiling sensation rippling deep in his blood. Excitement. Lust. Adrenaline. All of it filled him to create a glowing heat like none other deep inside the man's chest. Something dark and alluring. Depressing thoughts were pushed aside as he quickly drew a schema in his head of the outfit he'd buy before he'd arrive at his destination.

Something with blue in it, to bring out his eyes.

Also dark grey, and _tightly fitted._

His eyes fluttered closed, and a small smile made his way to his lips as he pictured it. 

 

_Perfect._

 

One thing was for sure, if Sherlock Holmes didn't notice John after _this_ , then Sneak would willing give up his slag-like ways for life.

And Sneak honestly, _truthfully,_ _ **really**_ liked sex.

Especially when John was interested as well, and he found to his amusement that picturing the dark-haired detective naked and wanting sent a deep shudder through almost all of the Alter's bodies. It was an indescribable shiver, and in that moment Daniel forcefully made Claude tune out.

Sneak chuckled darkly.

Somehow, he doubted he'd have to make that kind of sacrifice.

 

****

Sherlock realised something was wrong when John took exactly five minutes longer than he usually did when going to the lav. He had already been somewhat nervously counting the minutes, unsure why he was as wound up as he was even as his fingers ticked restlessly against the wall the leaned on. His phone was in his other hand, but he couldn't text Lestrade since he was working on another case and he felt like it would be slightly awkward to text his flatmate when he was “attending to business”....

 

Not that Sherlock much cared what people thought of him. He did however, cared what _John_ thought. Something that was growing increasingly apparent as he realised that his flatmate hadn't yet returned. Fidgeting in place, the detective bit his lower lip as he briefly debated just phoning John. However, he soon realised that the action was bordering on shy and cowardly, and Sherlock Holmes was not one to blush and stutter like some moronic schoolgirl. He didn't care about social norms, being normal was _boring._ John wasn't dull like the rest of the world, and would understand his somewhat manic insistence on the doctor's safety. 

 

Scowling, he willed himself to move towards the toilets, refusing to allow himself to second-guess. 

 

What he found was a thousand times worse than he could have imagined.

 

The loo was cold and empty, and immediately Sherlock's stomach dropped out from under him as he realised that there were two exits out of the room. Without looking around, the detective was instantly aware that he was the only living thing there, standing amongst lonely stalls and mirrors that reflected his solitary face only. Glancing about, his hands tightened into slow fists as dozens of possibilities flowed through his mind, clamouring about and jostling one another in an attempt to be noticed. The noise of it was almost deafening, so much so that Sherlock almost noticed that one of the mirrors was partially covered by a folded napkin jammed into its edge. Almost stumbling towards it, the detective pulled it from its position and carefully unfolded it in his hands. Written in a scrawling hand that was not unlike John's and yet significantly different, a note read:

 

_Dearest Sherly,_

_Come out and play <3_

_Here's your hint:_

_**3 Continents Watson** _

_xoxo :)_

_~ S_

It took the detective exactly three seconds before he reached for his phone and dialled Mycroft. In that three seconds, Sherlock wondered to himself just how much trouble one personality could cause in only a few hours. His heart thudding lowly in his ears, the detective promptly forgot Sebastian. Forgot the case. 

Forgot everything except really his own name and John's face. 

He found his hands twitching in suppressed worry. 

 

Somehow, he suspected that whatever trouble he was imagining, the truth would be _a thousand_ times worse. 

 

****

The club was one he hadn't haunted in _years._ A little hole in the wall, not the first one someone might pick when they were looking for a good time. And yet _Ladyrose_ would always hold a small amount of sentiment in Sneak's heart, because it was the place where he had his first. 

Well..... His first guy.

Definitely not his first woman.

 

Looking at the sign fondly, he walked in to the flavour pop music and glitter hanging in the air. 

He had made a brief shopping trip, casually throwing out John's horrid jumper and baggy jeans and turning in favour of a dark leather jacket over a deep blue shirt. Tight-fitted charcoal grey pants hugged his hips, and dark shoes gave the appearance of his skin looking almost ghostly under the hazed lights of the club. Loud music hummed deep in the base of his spine, pulsating with a rhythm that is almost as intense as the several dancers that are already there when he arrives. Though it is only mid-afternoon, already a fair few people are undulating under the lights, holding drinks in their hands that shimmer like fireflies in a starless sky as they grind against one another. The flavour of the air was just beginning to thicken, that fine line between heady sexual tension and good clean fun that stirred up Sneak's interest and made him almost light-headed with want. It had been too long since he'd been allowed to roam free, and he made his way to the bar swiftly to order himself a drink. The bartender was a woman with skin the exact same shade as the inside of a walnut, freckles dusted lightly across her nose and hair dark as leather itself. She smiled in a friendly way towards Sneak, but the man knew immediately that she's not looking for a shag any time soon tonight. Her entire stance read _In a relationship._ _Piss off._ And he took the drink with only a smile and warm thanks.

 

It was all part of the game, being able to read people like pawns in chess. It was the foreplay before the foreplay, and Sneak's learned to be good at it. Daniel often underestimated his intelligence, writing him off as a shameless slut and selfish teenager. Sneak happened to be both, but he also happened to have a brain that was more than just "average" on the intelligence scale. He had become good at using it, over time.

Very good.

His eyes roved over the mass of bodies, keeping to himself as he sipped his beer and made himself noticeably singular and yet still maintaining a level of interest. It was a delicate balance, and he hovered slightly on the balls of his feet as if he was preparing to go to war instead of just setting up a rather elaborate one-night stand. 

 

Soon he caught the eye of someone, a rather pretty girl with strawberry-blonde hair and deep blue eyes. She appeared to be around Sneak's age, and sat a little bit away from the bustle of youth that crowded the dance-floor. Her dress was racy and red and spoke recently divorced - _Cheating Husband-_ and she twisted a ring about her middle finger absently. Her gaze would drift now and again only to be irrevocably pulled back to the doctor's face, her eyes sneaking glances at him when she thought he didn't notice. He did, but he pretended he didn't until the right time. Then, slowly he fixed his gaze on her face.

Her smile was hesitant but friendly when she realised she'd been caught staring, a delightful flush tinging along her cheeks and lighting up her entire face so it glowed. Quickly she stared back down at her drink, and Sneak took it as a sign to approach. Carefully, he made his way over, the cogs in his brain already clicking a thousand miles ahead to best determine how to get in her bed tonight. He could already tell that he had her caught, and the drive was already making him flushed and wanting. He wasted no time, determined not to have his control usurped by one of the other personalities until he'd fulfilled his needs.

 

Later on, he'd find out her name was Sarah. Sarah Sawyer.

He'd lie, using an alias for a name instead of the one he identified with. He'd whisper it in her ear even as he'd lead her away from the club and towards her car waiting outside.

_Walter. Walter Johnson._

_  
_He'd also find himself thinking of high cheekbones and milky-white skin even as he pressed open-mouthed kisses along the woman's arching neck. He'd smirk against her collar-bone, rapidly heating up even as he'd send a sarcastic thought in John's direction.

 

_Feeling torn Johnny?_   


_  
_In response there was only silence, but Sneak found that sometimes, that was the most telling reply of all.


	11. The Casualty Of Evil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGERING-ISH STUFF IN THIS CHAPTER.
> 
> wotch yerself mmkay? *hugs*
> 
> Hope you enjoy. :) 
> 
> Sneak's quote is by St. James
> 
> oh! also I now have a tumblr, if you wish to follow that way. here's the link:
> 
> http://twistedthicket1.tumblr.com/

 

 

He pressed himself flush against her, bodies heated to the temperature of a raging furnace as they rocked against one another to a carnal drumbeat. Meeting her mouth with fervour, Sneak listened in delight at the small, breathy moans ghosting against his ear. It caused desire to bubble deep in his belly, and his blue eyes glittered in the dark like twin gems as they roved appreciatively over the figure lying beneath him. Sarah's soft curves surrounded him, pulled him under like a heavy aphrodisiac, her heat leaving him craving more. To touch more, to taste, to find. Alone in the darkness of her flat they were two shadows, tracing each other's outline, mapping out each other's skin.

 

Delicate hands, pulling at his hips, drawing him near. Sarah's blue eyes blown wide with lust, head tipped back in lust, dark and deep. His own fingers twisting in her hair as an explosion rips through him, dissolving all thought and all sense of perception. Whited out like a comet streaking through the sky, leaving him temporarily blind. He shivered over her, arms threatening to give out on him. He didn't let them, savouring the burn, the tingling leaving residual trembling along his spine.

 

Sneak's slow, curling smile was content and blissful later on that evening as he lay with Sarah in her bed, content to spend the evening and then leave in the middle of the night. The covers were cool against his heated body, and he lay with his shirt still on the floor, his lightly tanned figure illuminated by the sunset setting a bloody red in the sky. His lover for the night propped herself on one elbow, watching the stranger she had met tentatively. Her eyes followed the contour of his spine, how his sunny blonde hair was tinted to orange-gold by the sky. She looked at the playful, slow fire crackling in his irises, how despite the fact that there were marks on his face of a man who worried a lot, his expression was smooth and relaxed. The curling maw of his scar along his shoulder was a pink-white thing of curiosity, and even now she could recall the texture of it under her hands. Sarah wondered how he got it, or where he got his other scars too. There were many of them, both little and large, and they crossed over his body like a roadmap. Still there was a beauty in the still confidence he had in his own skin before her, sitting cross-legged completely bare as he occasionally reached over to stroke the line of her shoulder.

 

Sarah noted how the man's hands were callused as they rasped over her, as if from years of hard working, and how they twitched slightly with restless energy. She wondered at it until  _'Walter'_  leaned over to the side of the bed to fish around the pocket's of his jeans, revealing a carton of smokes.

 

When he moved, there was a faint glint along his arms that caught her eye, and she noticed how the ones along the man's wrists and inner elbow seemed to follow a sort of pattern, jagged and intense. She was a doctor, and it was obvious to her eye what the marks should mean. However, they were old and faded, and Sarah did not believe in prying into a person's past if they did not offer it up, especially with one-night stands. She offered no comment, but nodded when he asked if he could light up in her room, shrugging slightly.

 

“My husband smokes too. It's fine, he won't notice. There's an ashtray in the night-stand drawer.”

Sneak nodded, cupping his hands and raising a zippo lighter he had bought for such an occasion to his lips. The curling ember glowed by his palm as he inhaled deeply, eyelashes fluttering closed for a moment and chest swelling until he exhaled with a rush. The smell of smoke to Sarah was something akin to familiarity, and it did not bother her. She continued to stare at him, eyes tracing the lines that marked and twisted over his skin. Lying on her side, a moment of silence passed as she simply watched him smoke, enjoying the cigarette even as he leaned back against the pillows.

 

It was quiet, a comfortable calm settling over the two as they patiently waited for night to fall. Those clever blue eyes didn't flick towards her, but Sarah could tell somehow that he knew she was looking at him. She still jumped though, when his low voice murmured against the filter of his cigarette, answering her unspoken question.

 

“I wasn't myself. When I made these.” He gestured slightly with one hand to his arms, his other wrapping about the cigarette and flicking the ashes against the ashtray. They glowed for a brief moment, hanging on to life vainly for a second before greying to cold and lifeless. Sneak meant his statement literally of course, but knew the woman beside him wouldn't interpret it that way. Honestly, regular people were funny like that. Always looking for meaning behind a sentence. Over-analysing.

 

Sarah answered after a moment, blue eyes soft and half-hidden by her mussed hair. She looked at him kindly, offering not pity, but a silent understanding.

“We've all made mistakes. Done things we're not proud of.”

 

Shifting slightly, she sat up to move closer to him, fingers reaching out tentatively. An unsure expression crossed her face, but when Sneak wordlessly held out his wrist for her to see it smoothed over to determination. He watched in silent curiosity, expression cat-like and vaguely amused. He didn't really know why he was letting her touch the scars, and supposed an actual self-harmer would be more reserved with having strangers look at them. However he was not the one who had made those cuts, and so he felt little responsibility or guilt over them. At least, he told himself that as her fingers gently traced the lines, his cigarette almost burning his fingers as he let it alone too long.

 

Sarah had a strangely curious expression fixed on her face as she felt the slightly ridged lines of skin, lips pursing in thought as she looked up at him through her eyelashes to gauge his reaction. Walter didn't seem overly concerned, expression blank but friendly as he looked at her out of the corner of his eye. It was obvious the marks were fairly old, at least a few years, and she reasoned that maybe that was the reason he did not cringe away from her touch. His voice was level as he spoke again, and his voice was light and air.

“ _The true nature of evil is that it is so very casual._ ”

 

Sarah looked at him, a small frown crinkling her features.

“These are not evil, Walter. You're not. I hope you know that.” Her voice was quiet, but Sneak's laugh was loud. It was not a kind sound, Sarah realised, but something designed to push people away and keep them there. His eyes were shadowed slightly when he spoke, and for a moment, she felt as if though she was looking up at someone who had seen indescribable horrors and lived to tell the tale. Sarah couldn't breathe when that blue-eyed gaze pinned her in place, and Sneak snubbed the rest of his cigarette, tongue brushing the bottom half of his lip before he spoke.

His voice was cold and flat. Distant. It scared her.

 

Sneak wasn't really looking at her, not any more. He was looking at white lab coats. Cold-eyed stares. Uncaring hands holding him down. Drunken yelling. Screaming.

A car flipping over towards its imminent demise.

 

“I know  _I'm_ not evil. That's not the problem.”

He purred.

 

“What I  _don't_ know is if my  _other_ selves are  _good_. Or even if  _I'm_ good. What is good? Can  _you_  tell me? What is  _evil?_ ”

 

She didn't understand.

Sarah felt like she was going to begin hyperventilating, suddenly feeling as though she was staring down a tiger, poised to lunge for her throat. Yet as soon as the moment happened, it was gone.

Walter blinked, gaze cooling, and he drew away.

 

He left before she could ask him what he had meant.

Sarah watched the man she had only just met shrug on his clothes, pausing only to thank her for the night. He was surprisingly gentle as he touched her hand once with a brush of his knuckles, but his gaze was distant. She didn't stop him, her heart still pounding in her throat and her thoughts confused as she drew her blankets tighter about herself.

 

Sneak paused just at the door, eyes drawn to some invisible space on the floorboards in front of him. His words were so quiet, Sarah almost didn't catch them. Yet she somehow knew that even in a crowded room, she would have somehow heard.

 

“You deserve a husband that will treat you as kindly as you treated me.”

 

Sneak looked to her, a strange expression crossing his face. For a moment, Sarah wondered if he might say more. However the look on his face smoothed to blank marble, and he turned down the hall without another word. The last thing she heard from him was the sound of her front door clicking open, and Sarah bit her lip and stared at her hands, wondering how someone so kind could effectively manage to leave her in tears. Somehow, he had managed, and all without even trying.

 

She remained that way for a long time, long into the night. When her husband finally came home, he noticed the burned cigarette stub. Gruffly, he asked who passed by.

Not that he really cared.

He didn't hear her response, already his mind was on another woman, another place. Still, her own words sounded shaken and small in her ears.

 

Strangely numb.

 

“I don't know. I don't even know  _who_  he was.... Not really..... I'm not even sure if  _he_  knows....”

 

****

Sherlock was just about ready to panic.

Not the slight, fluttering tick of nervousness that he could scoff at and push aside but true, full-blown  _panic._

He had been searching all day.  _All day._

_**Mycroft  had been searching all day.** _

 

John was nowhere to be found.

 

_How in the **Hell** did an invalidated army doctor with a slight psychosomatic  **limp** somehow manage to avoid the British Government?!_

 

The detective might have been impressed, if he hadn't been too busy debating with himself whether or not to have his homeless network stretch outside of London. He didn't think John could be too far out, but he was beginning to have doubts. After tall, chances were this was a new personality at work, and he didn't know how their mind thought. Though John would have gone some place close to home, this other version of John might enjoy wandering.

 

If they were avoiding CCTV cameras, they were also probably quite clever.

Not average clever, but possibly  _interesting_ clever.

And that was dangerous, because if he was  _interesting_ clever, then Sherlock might very well have to spend months tracking John down.

He had already temporarily shelve Sebastian's Case, because this was obviously, a larger priority. 

Because even if in the end he found him (And he would always, without a doubt  _find_ him) who was to say this new personality wasn't waiting to play a game?

 

For a moment Sherlock ceased the frantic pacing he had kept up outside of Scotland Yard, wrestling with himself on whether or not to try and get someone involved. The Police were virtually useless at times, and Lestrade (the only marginally reasonable one of the lot) was away. Sherlock would have to talk to Dimmock, and the thought made his nose visibly curl with distaste. However that feeling soon went away when he imagined the numerous possibilities that could be happening to John in that moment, replaced with a sick kind of dread that he kept firmly clamped down in his gut.

 

Shutting his eyes in resignation, he mentally vowed that when John came back to him, the man was going to buy him dinner. No,  _cook_ him dinner, because this was outrageous.

 

He also might invest in a leash, if only to make sure the army doctor didn't vanish from his sights again.

 

He was just about to travel up the steps to go find Dimmock when Sherlock's phone rang, making him pause. Fishing his phone out of his pocket, the detective recognised the number instantly and actually bothered to answer it, Mrs. Hudson being one of the few people whom he allowed to call instead of text.

 

The old woman's voice warbled cheerily on the other end, relief evident in her tone.

“He's home Sherlock. He just got in, said he got a little caught up in traffic is all.”

 

The detective could practically feel the gears that had been whirring in his brain stop, come to a screeching halt before starting up again. He breathed a silent sigh of relief before he snapped back to normal, already hailing a cab to get back home as fast as he could. His questions were sharp and cutting.

 

“Quickly Mrs. Hudson. As unobtrusively as you can, can you tell me if there's anything noticeably different about John? Anything at all, a change in mood or how he interacted with you.”

 

A brief pause in which Sherlock could hear his housekeeper fussing to herself and muttering something about  _manners._ Then, Mrs. Hudson replied.

 

“I don't know what you're looking for dear but the only thing that's different about him is that he bought a guitar.”

 

Sherlock paused in his haste to get into the cab that pulled to the kerb for him, wondering for a moment if he had actually heard correctly. Inside the cab, the driver looked at him with a raised eyebrow muttering to him to “Get the hell in if he wanted a ride.”

The detective's voice was disbelieving as he spoke.

“....  _A_ _ **guitar**_ _.... John Watson bought..... a guitar...._ ”

 

Mrs. Hudson laughed, the sound airy and bright. He could mentally see her brushing away his confusion.

“Just because you've never heard him play before doesn't mean he doesn't know how Sherlock.” She chided.

“He's tuning the strings now. Been doing so for the past twenty minutes or so. Did you know he liked rock music?”

 

Sherlock wasn't listening. He was too busy pulling himself into the cab and barking directions to the driver.

 

He hung up the phone just as the first dregs of  _Sweet Child Of Mine_ drifted through the speaker, the sound muted and dull behind Mrs. Hudson's question call of

 

“Sherlock, dear??”


	12. Reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! :) Mild triggery warning for this chapter! be careful because I love you all *hugs*
> 
> if you have never heard the original partida no. 2 by bach, here is the link:
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=En6F4U4YMaA 
> 
> if you want to hear how I think Sneak's rendition sounded like, then this is the link you want:
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZskClh4XUX8 
> 
> Enjoy! :)

 

 

 

Music could be heard lilting from the flat even from the front step, the sharp chords of a guitar reverberating from an amp drifting over the pavement. Though Sherlock was absolutely abysmal at recognising modern forms of music, he was surprised to find that he could identify the piece being played. It was harder and edgier than he was used to, and it lacked the same kind of grace that a violin would have, but his flatmate was playing  _Bach's Partida number one in B minor-_

All the while managing to make it sound like a rather impressive guitar riff.

 

Frowning, the detective wasted no time in making his way inside the flat, long coat swirling behind him like a shadow as he stepped into the warmth of  _ **221 B.**_ Mrs. Hudson greeted Sherlock with a warm smile even as she carried a hamper full of laundry towards her flat, humming under her breath along with the spiralling notes that filled the building cheerily and intricately. She caught the detective's arm on his way upstairs, her silver-grey hair shimmering slightly under the dim lights as she smiled.

 

“Your John seems to be in a very good mood at the moment, dear. Says he just felt like playing today even though he hasn't in a while. Wouldn't be able to tell it, what with how good he is. He's at your level with a guitar, wouldn't you say?”

The old woman chattered on amiably, oblivious to Sherlock's desire to escape and find out which personality was currently playing the almost eerie piece upstairs. Not wanting to alarm Mrs. Hudson, he listened with a rather strained look of interest on his face, even as his fingers drummed restlessly against his knee and he had to bite back every sharp rebuff that came to his mind. Finally, he could take it no longer and gripping the old woman's shoulders soundly he looked her in the eye and told her

 

“There's been a murder, four killings no sign of a weapon or hints as to what killed them.”

 

The old woman, seeming to understand the gravity of the situation, waved him off with her hands. Even though it was a complete lie, Sherlock couldn't help but feel a small wave of affection for Mrs. Hudson as she said

“Well then, you best go tell him then! Though the smiling dear, it's not decent.”

 

Sherlock hadn't realised he was grinning. He carefully schooled his expression back to blankness. Nodding to his landlady in clipped fashion, the detective all but charged up the stairs, to which he was faced with a sight he could honestly say he hadn't expected to find.

 

John sat in the middle of the living room, sprawled rather unceremoniously in Sherlock's chair. It was such a un-John-like posture, that the detective had to blink to make sure what he was seeing was correct. The man lay so that his legs were splayed over the arm of the chair, his back resting on the seat and his shoulders propped on the opposite end. He was dressed in figure-hugging dark-wash jeans, and a deep blue shirt that brought out the striking hue of John's eyes. Over that, a dark jacket. In his hands, competent fingers weaving over the neck as soft melody came from it, was a shining blue Gibson guitar.

 

Immediately, Sherlock knew he was being baited for some kind of trap.

_Shock tactic. Meant to keep me off my feet._

 

He kept his features decidedly neutral even as John stopped playing to look up at the spindly figure looming over him. His smile was sharp and feral, slow and very much not like John's usual sunny grin. Instead it was darker, edged with something wicked and taunting. The detective didn't smile back.

 

“Well,  _look_  what the cat dragged in.”

Sneak murmured, and even as he spoke his fingers still twitched, wanting to continue playing but unable to so long as the amp was still connected. The metal box sat beside the chair, and Sherlock's gaze flicked to it as the detective's voice rumbled deeply.

His tone was carefully devoid of emotion.

“I'd appreciate it if you'd give me some hint of your location next time. It is..... distressing to not be able to find my blogger when he is needed to say the least.”

 

The other personality hummed dragging his teeth across his bottom lip once before sitting up slightly. On his face was an amused smirk, one that Sherlock found reminded him rather uncomfortably of sharp glass and gravel roads. He noted somewhat absently that his eyes kept going back to the outline of muscle along John's abdomen that wasn’t' usually highlighted by his choice of clothes. Sherlock scowled, firmly dragging his gaze back towards his flatmate's face as the other personality gave him a critical glance over. His eyes seem to linger in places that made the detective inexplicably want to blush.

 

“But I  _gave_ you a clue.... Didn't you get my little note? Doesn't the great detective love his puzzles and games?”

 

“Not when John's life is being potentially threatened and I have no way of contacting him.” The detective dead-panned, expression cool and icy. Sneak tutted, mock-pouting before setting his instrument to the side. The detective jutted his chin towards it, commenting without any particular heat or inflection.

 

“If you stole that, John will not be pleased.”

The look Not-John gave him was mildly affronted. His spine straightened as he glared up at the detective, blue eyes sparking mischievously.

 

“ _Please._ Give me  _some_  credit at least. Do you think I'd steal anything with a detective trailing after me asking after my face? I got it from a storage unit, it was in crap condition since it's been a while since I've been in charge, but I've almost got it back to its original sound. You took your time, I was able to buy new strings and everything before I even came home.”

Cat-like, Sneak leaned back, heavy-lidded gaze flicking up to Sherlock's eyes and lingering there. Unlike John, he did not look away, merely kept a steady-eyed stare until the detective felt the silence in the flat ringing into his bones. In that stare was a reflected image of his own look, calculating and cool. For once, the detective thought he might understand why most cowered under his glare. He felt as though his skin was being peeled back, layer upon layer, until whatever was at his steeled core was being observed. Though he was doing the same to this personality, he couldn't help but want to shiver slightly. Sherlock resisted it.

 

“Who are you?”

 

He asked softly. Steadily.

 

“No one.”

Sneak answered back easily, shrugging as he sat back. He blinked slowly. Distantly. His irises were wide and cat-like. False innocence.

 

“I am no one that matters. At least, that's the answer Daniel wants me to say. What he fights so hard to pretend, about all of us.”

The words were not bitter. Rather, they were matter-of-fact, almost firm. Yet his eyes dared Sherlock to challenge the statement, and after a moment the detective took the bait reluctantly.

 

“Something tells me that is not your opinion.”

The curling smile returned, and in a strange mimicry of Sherlock's own posture, John cupped his hands under his chin in thought. Slowly, the detective sat himself down in the opposite chair, feeling as if for once he was facing someone who wasn't asleep like most of the rest of the world. His head tilted to the side in thought as Not-John didn't respond.

 

“What's your name?”

 

“Can't you guess?” Sneak shot back, lips twitching as one knee jiggled restlessly. The posture of this one was different to John's significantly. Where the soldier's bearing lingered in his doctor, this version of John appeared to have a rather leonine and lazy hold to his spine. Slightly slouched, but only just enough to give the impression of meaning no harm. However his hands ticked in constant movement, and his eyes glittered with held-back comments and thought.

 

“I can guess your purpose and your past. Not your name, since you don't have anything identifiable on you.”

 

Sneak laughed, and the sound was slightly disbelieving.

“Can you really? Go on then, entertain me, show me what you can see.”

 

He lifted his arms up mockingly, grinning like a teenager, roguish and carefree like it was some sort of amusing carnival he was witnessing. Sherlock felt himself strangely reluctant to voice his observations, feeling as though for once he was the experiment instead of the scientist. Still he could never exactly refuse John, much to his chagrin, even when the person sitting before him was so clearly not the army doctor he knew. They looked at each other, two mirror images and yet so different and at once the same.

 

Clearing his throat, he shot off his observations.

“You dress in a way that is deliberately provocative without being to the extreme, however it is muted just enough to not seem obvious. This is a conscious effort as you changed clothes the moment you switched with John. Since you've somehow managed to memorise the entire CCTV camera circuit in London, I'm going to make a shot in the dark and say your intelligence is above average. Not necessarily above mine or my idiot brother's, but above the common drabble. At least your memory is. This is further proven by your rendition of classical music on an electric guitar without any sheet music given. Either your ear is extremely sensitive, which I know for a fact that John is tone-deaf and that shouldn't change too much, or you once had the music on you and had to give it away or lost it. Given the slightly rumpled state of your clothes and the fact that it has been several hours since you managed to escape my notice it is obvious you had a purpose when you left. You used someone else's toothpaste, John doesn't like mint-flavoured, and so the obvious conclusion would be you found someone to spend the night with. You also have her perfume lingering on you, so woman, although from the amount of detail you spend on your appearance and your obvious advances towards me I think the gender of the person itself doesn't particularly matter. However you came back instead of staying at that person's place, which means that either she kicked you out or you left. So. Affair? Shot in the dark but you just confirmed it with that look you just gave me. Yet sex is usually an enjoyable act for most people, so my question is why does John seem to actively avoid it while you seek it out?”

 

Sherlock ignored the own twisting in his chest as he watched something dark flicker in Sneak's eyes, pushing past the crawling sensation in his gut to find the cohesive whole of all of his deductions. He let the steel overtake him, gaze turning coolly triumphant at his eyes flashed with the fire of an answer.

 

“ _Ah._ ”

 

But before he could say it out loud, Sneak leaned forward, smile plastered back to his face. He clapped in applause, chuckling sunnily like the detective hadn't just stepped on a land-mine.

 

“ _Careful_ Mr. Holmes. You're walking in on one of our biggest secrets, and as much as I think you're brilliant, I think a few people might have some words to say to you if you just blurt it out and leave us gutted and open like one of your corpses.”

 

Sherlock's mouth was uncharacteristically dry. He ignored it and swallowed, determined to push just a little further.

“Am I  _correct_?” He cut out, hands folding over each other. The detective didn't think about it, but it was a subconscious gesture to keep them from trembling in anger. The white-hot rage he could feel washing over him was strangely muted as he kept himself detached from his emotions, keeping a blank face so that he wouldn't feel the urge to throw something out of a window.

 

Sneak was deliberately vague. He shrugged noncomitantly, gaze sliding away to look about the flat. There was a slight madness about this personality, Sherlock reflected. Something almost unstable, or perhaps disturbingly stable, given the topic they were skirting around. When he did speak again, it was only to change topic. His gaze wasn't quite so faraway when he was speaking, not quite so wandering. Like a balloon tethered back to the Earth.

 

“Still, I'm impressed. That's quite a useful skill. I can only imagine what I could get away with if I could do that with everyone around me. I'd be  _king_  by now. You're a better man then I am, Mr. Holmes. I love classical music, but I always feel it's missing something. It's my hobby, transitioning classic pieces into rock. Fun hobby, a mix of new and old.”

 

“You smoke.” Is the only reply the detective deigned to give him. He watched as Not-John shifted agreeably, nodding an affirmation even before fishing around in his pockets and revealing a pack. Taking one out, he held it out to Sherlock, expression reading and calculating again.

“Care for a light?”

 

After a moment of initial hesitation, Sherlock reached out and took it. The flat filled with smoke as the two of them lit up, the ember of the cigarette's glowing ashen red as they each inhaled at the same time. Not-John blew out a smoke ring, watching it proudly as it floated above the detective's dark curls.

 

“Your name?”

He pressed again.

 

Sneak paused, shifting closer to that his face was mere inches away from the detective's. His eyes flicked over Sherlock's face, smoke curling about him as he exhaled, lingering on the man's cupid mouth and sharp cheekbones. In his gaze Sherlock could see hunger, and not the kind of craving for food or things of mortality.

 

“What will you give me if I tell you?”

Sneak purred, head tilting slightly as he peered through his eyelashes at the man of angles and shadow before him. The hand that held his cigarette came up to reach out and brush an errant curl lightly from Sherlock's eyes, smile fading into something strangely sad and piercing the longer the detective looked at it. Sneak's question was repeated again, softer this time, looking at him hard.

 

“What will you give me, Mr. Holmes? What can be bestowed upon me that I cannot find myself?”

He purred, leaning in so that the only space between them was a breath. Sherlock could see his own face reflected in those irises, composed but not nearly composed enough. Later, he would wonder why it felt like he had been able to breathe endlessly, and yet not inhale at all. His answer was quick, killing the electrically charged mood with efficiency.

 

 

 

“Sheet music. And an ally. I want to work with as many of the Alters as I can, and I need someone to defend my corner when I try and convince the others to tell John. It's obvious you aren't... satisfied with the way things are as they stand....”

For a moment, Sherlock feared that Not-John wouldn't take the deal. His expression was decidedly uninterested and impassive. Unfocused.

Then, the Alter's face lit up, and he drew away abruptly and stood in excitement, hopping in place and whooping in glee.

 

“Oh I  _knew_ I'd like you! Interesting, so very interesting Mr. Holmes! No wonder John can't stay away, you're the full package down to the  _wrapping._ ”

 

Sherlock decided to ignore the obvious sexual innuendo, rising to adjust the collar of his shirt. He felt warm. Too warm, like he had been scorched by fire. Distantly, he counted his heart-rate. The speed of it had doubled. Exhaling silently, the detective ran a hand through his hair in relief before turning to look as Not-John introduced himself with an extended hand and smile.

 

“I'm Sneak. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

 

Skeletal fingers wrapped around tan. John's palm was warm, but Sneak's finger-tips were cold. They fluttered against his knuckles before releasing their grip.

 

“Call me Sherlock.”

 

“Can I call you Siggy? Or Sig? Less work that way.”

 

The detective blinked at the nickname, but when he didn't offer any complaint Sneak seemed to take it as an affirmation. Strangely lively and youthful and cat-like in John's body, the Alter leapt over his guitar effortlessly on his way to the kitchen. After a moment, Sherlock followed wordlessly. He noticed how the Alter knew without hesitation where John kept the tea, except he couldn't seem to wait for the water to boil. Filling his cup with water, Sherlock watched with amusement as the man put his cup in the microwave. For once, there wasn't and experiment to block it.

 

“You seem to abhor effort.”

 

Sneak looked at him with huge, understanding eyes that spoke of the horror of menial labour.

“With a  _passion._ ”

 

He agreed wholeheartedly, hands already becoming sticky as he rifled in the tin for a biscuit.

 

 

****

Sherlock's uninvited guest proved to be rather interesting. Different from the other Alters the detective had met as of yet. Sneak did not hesitate to speak of the others, steadily making his way through the tin of desserts even while complaining good-naturedly about his weight. He was brutally honest in his observations, to the point where Sherlock might call him deliberately callous, but he always seemed to know when to draw away at the last moment. He spoke in riddles, opening doors and then putting barricades in front of them when the detective tried to pry his way inside. Talented at giving nothing and everything away, Sherlock was forced to admit that the personality was rather charming, in a scandalous kind of way.

 

He made no secret of his attraction to the detective.

“You're so brilliant, I just want to kiss you, or hug you, or make you beg for mercy.”

 

Sherlock made sure to be neutral on a ground he wasn't quite sure wasn't loaded with bombs, tactfully dodging each direct attempt at flattery with good tea and sharp questions. The Alter seemed more than willing to answer Sherlock's queries, although he did it in such a way that often never really answered the question at all.

 

“When did you appear in John's life?”

 

“Around puberty. I'm a direct link to his libido, so I kind of just popped up then,  _hello._ ” He waved his fingers in jazz-hands style, grinning wickedly even as he licked crumbs from his lips. The Alter continued to speak, seemingly lost in his own memories.

 

“Oh I remember uni, it was  _fantastic._ So many people with so little scruples. Everyone's just a little bit gay, and  _everyone's_ willing to give just about anything a shot. It's lovely, great fun. Nothing more fun than happy, consensual one-night stands.”

 

“You emphasized consensual.” Sherlock murmured quickly, eyes narrowing. Sneak however looked at him, pale brow arching.

 

“You really think that lowly of John? He wouldn't have it any other way,  _none_ of us would. It's an unspoken rule, and one even  _I_ don't cross.”

Sneak's nose wrinkled in distaste, as if the very thought made him viciously nauseous. Sherlock was privately glad to hear it, although he didn't really think that this Alter would be the type to do something so horrid. Again the dangerous anger bloomed hot and sour on his tongue, but the detective swallowed it down. He'd review his deductions later, when he wouldn't potentially frighten John. Somewhere inside Sneak his best friend was still there, and until he could be certain that John was aware of what he was doing and who he was, the detective felt it his job to look after him.

Jealousy wasn't part of it.

Not at all.

 

“I take it you use protection?”

Sneak rolled his eyes, exasperated.

 

“ _Yes,_ Mum. Honestly, you're as bad as Daniel. Thought you'd be a mite more adventurous. He's always on my case too,  _Don't tell Claude what you do, stop stressing_ _ **Blue**_ _out, For God sakes-_”

 

“Blue?” Sherlock interrupted Sneak mid-rant, eyebrows scrunching in interest at the new name. Sneak suddenly cooled in his tongue, eyes growing slightly distant and dreamy again as he sat cross-legged on the couch.

 

“My sister.” He said simply, pale brows lowering as John's tongue darted out to swipe at his lower lip in abrupt worry. Sherlock edged a little closer, curious at the abrupt shift in mood from hot to cold.

 

“Older or younger?” He asked, adopting a gentle tone. Sneak had gone still, hands for once not tapping and twining about his wrists. He scratched absently at his sleeves, a sign of nerves.

His voice was almost too soft to hear.

 

“She's coming.”

 

Then, quick as lightning, he spun around and launched himself at Sherlock, kissing the man promptly on the mouth, bruising and deep. Before the detective could really think about resisting, Sneak was curled up against his chest, hands digging into the fabric of Sherlock's shirt so tightly that the man could see the blood leaching from his joints. John's voice came raggedly out of his chest, Sneak twisting slightly in discomfort as he looked to Sherlock, eyes a little wild and dazed.

 

“You need to stop her.”

He said firmly, uttering the words like they were casting a spell. Sherlock didn't understand. He gripped John's shoulders, noticing absently they were trembling. He let his voice rise slightly to get he Alter's attention.

 

“I need to stop who?”

 

Like a shiver, a racking quake twitched over John's body, and for one moment, the detective saw John. John's blue eyes, looking at him, glazed and in pain.

 

“Sher.... My  _head...._ it hurts....”

 

“John.” Sherlock murmured, manoeuvring so that he had the smaller man curled beside him. However John had already vanished, Sneak's voice rumbling against the detective's neck. It was laboured and tense.

“Need.... Stop....her....”

 

The mumbling sounded half-mad, and Sherlock was growing concerned before Sneak pulled back, groaning lowly and clutching his head. Then the detective went on autopilot, trying to soothe John because  _John_ was in pain and  _John_ was suffering and-

 

He almost didn't catch his flatmate in time when Sneak's eyes fluttered shut, and he slumped bonelessly into the couch. Sherlock cradled John's body for a long time, chanting the man's name under his breath and trying to wake him, desperately worried that it might not be the right thing to do. What was this? This was never mentioned in any account of dissociative disorder or any other mental illness like it. His friend was literally unresponsive, heart-rate even but a little fast, breath coming in shallow gasping from his chest. The detective was just about to call an ambulance (and then possibly his brother) When all the muscles in John's body tensed, and the army doctor's eyes fluttered as if he was waking from a dream.

 

Sherlock watched, holding his breath as large blue eyes looked up at him, seeing but not processing, the entire posture of his flatmate changing in an instant down to the most minute detail.

 

John's posture curled in on himself protectively, breathing coming fast and shallow. Those eyes filled with numb sadness, cracking with horror and fear. His voice came, soft and terrified and pleading, and he looked up at Sherlock like he was a monster before muttering

“Let me go.  _Please_ let me go.”

 

 

Blue was awake.

Blue was terrified.

Blue wanted to run.


	13. The Broken One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooooooo things get decidedly darker from this point onward.... don't say I didn't warn you. XP
> 
> Sorry it's a bit late, went to comicon this weekend! IT WAS FANTASTIC!  
> :D

 

 

 

“ _Be good Johnny.”_

 

_**That's not her name. It never is. They call for the other boy, but he sleeps. John is asleep. He's dreaming of wide open corn fields and blue summer skies, of kicking a rugby ball across the grass. Good dreams.** _

 

“ _Harry, make sure he behaves.”_

 

_**She tries. She tries to behave. It's hard, she messes up. She's never good enough to quite manage it. She doesn't touch anything, and doesn't complain about how the house she's left at smells like hay and horse.** _

 

“ _He'll be fine.”_

 

_**She wants to argue, but arguing is rude, so she holds her tongue. John would hold his tongue. She wants to beg them to come back, beg them to not leave her here. She wants to say a lot, but she can't.** _

_**She knows she can't.** _

 

_**She does not actually exist. She merely is a canvas, a place in John's mind that serves as a punching bag, a black patch of abuse that must never come to be seen.** _

 

_**She is the first born, she is the oldest.** _

_**And yet she is broken.** _

 

_**Because no matter how much she tries, she hurts the one thing she is meant to protect.** _

_**She is flawed, and so she must pay.** _

_**The others may be able to fade, but she never will.** _

_**She cannot completely, no matter how hard she wishes she could.** _

 

_**Because John Watson cannot face this, and so Blue must.** _

_**If nothing else, Blue must face it all.** _

_**Take every blow, every memory, every whispered word.** _

_**She does, but she suffers.** _

_**He suffers, because she is not strong enough.** _

_**She never has been, she is weak.** _

 

_**And she's about to be weak again.** _

__

_**She's the broken one.** _

_**The one that in the end, messes everything up.** _

__

_**She is both the sobbing ache and the raw numb that comes after.** _

__

_**She is his resentment towards life.** _

 

****

John pulled away from him like he was made of hot coals, a small cry coming from his parted lips. Before Sherlock could completely comprehend the abrupt change, his flatmate was on the floor, scrabbling away from the detective and curling in on himself like he expected an attack. John suddenly appeared much smaller as a sad sort of wail came out of him, stifled by the palm of his own hand as he willed himself viciously into silence. It was a painful gesture, and Sherlock's stomach immediately twisted itself into knots as he stood frozen, unable to move forward and yet unwilling to back away.

 

Evening cast itself in pale moonlight, illuminating John's pale figure and turning his eyes a brilliant, silver sapphire as he looked up at the detective with wide, unfamiliar eyes. His gaze was large and saucer-like as they took in the length of the flat, flashing with confusion and a lack of recognition as a voice that was softer and higher than John's whispered.

 

“Where am I? What's going on? Don't hurt me....” And then, increasing in volume as those eyes took in Sherlock, and John drew in a ragged breath and curled closer in on himself, sobs coming in soft, hiccuping gasps

“Don't hurt me....  _please.....I'll be good...._ ”

 

An itching, nagging feeling crawled along Sherlock's spine, tingling through his bones as he breathed in, holding his hands up instinctively in a supplicating gesture even as he crouched a few feet away. The information on dissociative disorders was vague at best, often contradictory with other sources, yet each website and forum that Sherlock had analysed had agreed on the same thing:

 

_It was almost always due to prolonged abuse of both physical and sexual nature._

 

Sneak's words rang in his Mind-Palace, sing-song and melodic. It echoed and overlapped like a chorus of bells.

 

_**Careful Mr. Holmes. You're walking in on one of our biggest secrets.....** _

 

Its roar surged with the simultaneous bubbling of emotion that ripped through Sherlock's chest, making him taste hot iron on his tongue as he struggled to remain calm. Right now, anger wasn't what John needed, and this side of his friend was in obvious distress and would soon black out if they continued breathing in such an uneven pattern. He forced his breaths to come slow and even, hoping that some part of John might subconsciously pick up on it and follow. He did not approach, pitching his voice slightly lower and non-threatening.

 

Gentle, not something he would normally do around the army doctor, who appreciated bluntness and cruelty to beautiful lies.

 

He did it anyway.

 

“ _Shhh_. It's okay....I won't hurt you.... I won't even come closer..... _shh._   _Please_ , you'll wake the landlady.....You are in a flat that John Watson has decided to share with me....You are safe here, I assure you. What's your name? Sneak told me about you.....”

 

The Alter did not seem particularly convinced by that. Rather, their voice was low and croaky as they trembled, shuffling closer into the shadow of the corner of the living room, as if darkness could hide them from Sherlock's sharp gaze. Pale lashes blinked through red eyes blotchy from tears, trying to process the words spoken. When John opened his mouth, a sob muffled his words.

 

“I'll be g-good. D-don't hurt me.......C-can't s-stop s-sorry.”

 

Sherlock made vague sounds he hoped were comforting as Not-John continued to cry, rocking slightly and sounding like an injured animal, mewling sobs desperate and pained.

 

“Wasn't h-here last time.... Bedsit.... T-they s-stopped me last time....C-couldn't.... f-failed...”

The mumblings made no real sense to Sherlock, but he latched onto the bit of information provided. This personality hadn't been awake for a few months then. If their last memory was the bedsit, then they hadn't been active since John met Sherlock. That meant that this personality wasn't one that usually came to the forefront, not like Daniel or Claude.

More like Conrad, a reaction to acute stress.

 

Though what kind of stress, that remained yet to be fully understood.

 

Sherlock assumed a persona of soft caring, the mould fitting awkwardly on his broad shoulders and yet coming surprisingly naturally to him as he saw tears glistening down John's cheeks. He chose not to analyse too closely how easily he made his normal edges as rounded and smooth as glass worn away by the tide.

 

He pretended like he didn't sound like John did when he spoke to an injured patient.

“Listen to me, I need you to breathe. Try and copy my breaths. I am aware that you are confused and stressed, but if you don't try and remain calm you'll black out.”

 

Seeming to vaguely understand his request, Sherlock watched as John's shuddering sobs tried to even themselves out. It was like watching a river stutter to a still pond, strangely difficult and sad. When the detective felt that perhaps John's breathing was approaching normalcy, he dared to speak again.

 

“You're new, aren't you? It's not Claude I'm talking to? Or Sneak?” He knew very well it wasn't either of the two, but Sherlock needed to get the personality talking, and to do that coaxing would be necessary. To his surprise however, John's face twisted darkly in rage, and a familiar Welsh accent barked out angry words.

 

“Just leave her the fuck alone Holmes!”

 

Conrad's angry features melted into caution as Daniel's Scottish accent drifted through.

“He's trying to help Conrad, and we might very well need it-”

 

Claude's wide eyes and trembling voice.

“It's dark. All the thoughts are dark-”

 

Sneak's giggling sigh.

“And we _ allllllll_ go tumbling down like a crumbling brick wall!”

 

The sad face again, panicked as John's hands lift to clap over his own ears.

“Shut up! Just shut  _up_  all of you! Why do you keep filling my head?!”

 

Like a screeching intersection filled with cars all going different directions, there was a silence as loud as a thunderclap before the crash. For a moment, Sherlock watched in fascination as vague recognition filled John's eyes as his gaze slid towards the detective, like a window misted over, almost clear.

 

For a moment, Sherlock could see John in the depths of all the other personalities, swimming and trying to keep his head above water. He could pinpoint the exact moment that John Watson let himself drown.

The light went out of the doctor's eyes, and coolness filled in. A numb sort of expression filled John's face as his body went slack, the colour fading from his face. A single voice, calm and placid, spoke to fill the silence.

 

“Everything's broken.”

 

Sherlock, unsure of who he was now talking to frowned. It took him a second, but he saw in John's face that it had been the same person that had been crying. Except this was the aftermath of the tears. Cold. Detached.

Numb.

 

An iceberg, floating in a dark sea.

 

Cautiously, Sherlock shifted forward, sensing that it would no longer alarm the personality quite so much. Rather, John looked not unlike a puppet cut from its strings, collapsed in a slump on the floor. It was eerie, that clear blue gaze that seemed to fix on the detective and yet not really see him. Shell-shocked, would be an apt description.

 

Holding out his hands in a gesture of peace a few feet away, Sherlock pitched his voice lowly.

 

“I just want to help you. I'm a …..a friend of John Watson's.... Which means I'm a friend to you....”

 

The personality's answer is immediate. Lost as a distant star.

“No one can help us. No one can ever help us.”

 

Those clear eyes sharpened minutely.

“And we aren't allowed to have friends.”

 

The detective paused, a chilling tingle of rage washing through his very bones. His voice was clipped as he spoke, eyes narrowing slightly as he looked hard at the personality that was and wasn't John.

“Who told you that?”

 

“Pass.”

 

Prompt, without emotion. The personality's voice sings the word like a hushing croon. Those eyes flicked away from Sherlock's face, only to settle once on Sneak's guitar. Avoidance. Stress. Pain. Fear. Every move was thought about and then aborted. John was as still as a ragdoll.

As deathly-cold as ice.

 

 

“We are not playing a game.” Sherlock growled, growing frustrated at constantly being played with, being danced about. He was growing worried, and it was clouding his judgement. He could not fix this if he couldn't worm his way towards the heart of the problem. That was what he had always been good at. Yet until now he had been cautious, unwilling to crack open John. He could normally shatter people, break them from the inside out and get to the live, pumping veins that made up their process of thinking. Their very core. The instincts that drove them to love and lose and murder and lust and grieve. He could look through a person like wet tissue paper, peel back every layer, and it was because he could detach himself and stop thinking of the person as anything more than a riddle to solve.

 

Yet so far, he had been unable to do so with one John Watson.

It infuriated him.

And yet even the detective had limits on his patience.

 

Especially when he hadn't seen the John he knew for nearly two days.

 

“I just want to help. Why do you not comprehend this?! John I demand you get out of wherever you are and speak to me!”

 

He didn't really expect it to work, and true to his suspicions John's face remained slack and empty. A galaxy without stars, black and void. Yet there was a sudden hunger there, and Sherlock noted it as that gaze finally latched to him. Looking at him like he might have an answer to the wounds hiding just below the surface.

 

“You want to help me?”

 

 

 

The personality looked up at him, a vague and insane hope passing John's features. Shakily, the personality rose to their feet, drawing closer towards Sherlock's crouched form. John Watson looked down at him for a second, eyes like translucent stardust.

 

Blue saw this man before her, wondering if he meant it. She remembered the others. The ones who made the same promise. The ones in white, in a world of white. Angels, no, Demons disguised as angels. Foggy chemicals, magic potions given to drink. Chaos. Pounding heart.

Darkness.

Madness.

Laughing, their own and not their own, high and maniacal in their own ears.

The rattling of cell doors like the gates of hell sealing death.

 

Her voice was whisper-soft. Feathery.

 

 

“They all said they wanted to help us. Make us better.... Then they  _lied_....”

 

John sang the last bit, voice rising and lowering. It was not a happy tune, rather, it sounded like the haunting dirges of a lullaby. If Sherlock had been a more honest man, he might have admitted that he was slightly afraid of the figure kneeling in front of him, even as John slumped boneless against his shoulder and sighed. His breath was a puff of hot air next to the shell of the detective's ear.

 

“The only way you can help us,  _Mr. Holmes_ , is if you somehow manage to  _kill_ us, and somehow I don't think you could.”

 

And then wetness, warm and dripping against Sherlock's neck. John shook silently with his crying, trembling like a bomb strapped down to stone as his ragged voice pleaded. Sherlock stared straight ahead, hardly daring to breathe. In his mind, pieces fell together, long sleeves and nightmare-filled nights coalescing into a very different John than the detective had first assumed.

 

He did not want to see, and yet he could not look away as John drew back,

 

“Because you see, I've  _already tried_....”

 

Sherlock felt as it his heart was going to pound out of his ribcage. Terror struck him, deep and animalistic as John's hands placed themselves on either side of his head. His friend's fingers were ice cold, but they moved to turn up sleeves to reveal scars livid and red, vivid lines on tanned skin.

Blue looked to the detective, smiling slightly. Her voice was filled with pain.

 

“Kill us, Sherlock Holmes. Kill us and end this. End the screaming in our head. John wants to die, we all just want to  _die._ ”

 

And it was at that moment that Sherlock lunged forward, catching John as he slumped into unconsciousness. Cradling his friend's still figure in his arms, the detective breathed raggedly, allowing himself to come apart as he looked at John's still and sleeping face.

 

He held his friend like that for a long while, rocking slightly as he tucked the top of John's head underneath his chin, lost in his own thoughts. Some part of him knew he should call someone. His brother. A professional that could better deal with this.

Anyone.

 

Yet John's vitals were stable, steady under Sherlock's thumb. He felt an irrational prick of uncertainty, even as he brushed his hands over John's arms again and again, feeling the lumped scar tissue and smooth skin.

 

It felt.... Wrong, to just do something without John's consent.

It was obvious John had lived with this.... condition for most if not all of his life, and to a certain extent, Sherlock had been aggravating his condition. The detective felt at least partially responsible, as well as uncertain about how John would react to his knowing.

 

He didn't want to call someone just yet, in case John did not want him to.

For it was obvious that John himself was mostly in his  _right mind_ , even though evidently some of his personalities were not. A psychiatric ward would be what would be suggested, and the image of putting his friend there made Sherlock's stomach physically curl in protest.

 

Still, he could feel the scars.

Touch them.

 

They were all too real.

 

He thought long into the night.

Not moving from his cradled position, Sherlock pondered the course of action to take.

 

He thought about it, dashing and chasing after each and every possible outcome, and redrawing his steps. Each path was a landmine, riddled with  _what-ifs_ and  _possibilities._

 

Each one wasn't advisable.

 

He thought for so long, that when his time was up, he couldn't prepare in time.

 

John's eyes fluttered opened with the rising of the sun, wincing at the sharp light in the window as for a moment it washed out his vision. Disoriented, he couldn't figure out where he was for a moment. Last he could remember.... he had been at a bank.....

 

Sherlock's face soon swam into focus.

Close to him.

Closer than he expected.

His mouth felt dry.

 

The detective's face was impassive, but uncertainty flickered in those irises as John became aware that Sherlock was holding him, curled about him like he was afraid to let go. John's heart began to beat faster, and he scrambled to find some excuse. Some lie. Some vague faerie tale to keep up the charade he had kept for so long.

 

 

Before he could, the detective cut him off.

 

_“John.”_

 

His tone of voice, his piercing gaze, and the soldier fell silent. Laid limp in Sherlock's arm.

His heart tasted sharp and iron-edged in his mouth.

 

Sherlock's voice offered no room for argument, even though it didn't rise above a shout. His grip was vice-like and iron, as if he half-suspected John might make a bolt for it. The soldier couldn't if he tried. His legs had stopped working the second his lifelong secret had been blown out of the water.

 

He wasn't even sure he could blink.

 

“We need to talk.”


	14. The Boy Who Was Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long ^.^'' 
> 
> John and Sherlock have a lot to talk about.....

 

 

John had had this conversation many times before. Or rather, he's heard other people have it on his behalf. He's listened to it as a child, half-hidden behind closed doors and as a teenager, explained to him carefully and professionally by care home workers across the borders. He had it memorized, the sound of someone clinically cutting themselves off from him. The tone a heart made when it was injured and yet still alive, beating away in hollowed ribs.

 

He knew what it was like to look up and see in someone's face total exhaustion and stress, fear and repulsion across their features.

 

So he didn't dare look up. Not once from his hands that were folded in his lap as he listened to the shuffling footfalls of his flatmate as Sherlock fussed over him, checking for injury and pain. He did not lift his head, merely observed through his lashes until finally, skeletal fingers reached out and hesitantly rested themselves beneath his chin. Like he was guiding a small child, Sherlock pushed gently, forcing John to look him in the eye even as the soldier's breath came faster from between his lips.

 

The detective's gaze was soft as he looked to the man, achingly so, and John felt his throat close hotly as he struggled to keep his breathing even. It was the same look.  _The same look_ everyone gave him. The one he wished he could tear apart with his bare hands, the shrapnel of it hitting him more painfully than any war wound could. The one he couldn't stare at for too long for fear he'd see how broken he was compared to someone who was whole.

 

Yet Sherlock would not let him look away, even when John tried to do so. His hand turned firm in its grip, holding his chin there as slowly, the detective exhaled in a sigh. The sweetness of his breath tickled John's cheeks, and that's when he realised how close he was to to his flatmate, both metaphorically and physically. How very much in this moment his life was being dangled in Sherlock Holmes' elegant hands.

His voice was low, and it read every expression on John's face and soothed the fears with words like a caress.

 

“It's okay now. It's okay. You'll be fine. I'm not mad at you. Not mad at all for anything.”

 

Mindless, kind words. Like the detective was calming a small child, John found himself trembling, breaths nearing hyperventilation even as he forced himself to breathe evenly. Still he flinched as Sherlock reached out to stroke the top of his head, the gesture strangely tactile for his flatmate. The detective immediately withdrew his fingers.

 

A part of John wished he hadn't.

 

When Sherlock spoke, it was merely to lay out the facts between them. The words unspoken. The  _how_ and  _when_ and  _why_ to the detective's recent knowledge of John's condition. He was still half-crouched before him, and from the looks of it, Sherlock had no plans of moving out of John's line of sight any time soon.

 

“I found out only a short while ago John. One of your.... One of the other versions of you sought me out when they ran into a spot of trouble.”

 

John lips tightened into a thin line of distaste, hands tightening together as he cautiously guessed.

“The grocery store?? Is that why there's a blank....”

 

With Sherlock's affirming nod, the man sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly. John suddenly looked much older, somehow far more world-weary than he ever had before. His shoulders seemed to slump, as if they had been carrying a subconscious weight for a very long time.

 

Sherlock didn't like seeing it, seeing John look already so tired and close to defeat. The army doctor should never look that small. Shaken by the previous personalities' words and determined to fix the bleak expression off of the man's face, the detective rose abruptly, words sharp and clear as he stepped towards the kitchen.

 

“Tea.”

 

It is more of an order than a request. Needless to say, John didn't argue. Instead he kept quiet, mentally cataloguing what exactly he'd need to pack.

 

If this was how things were to turn out, he wanted to leave by morning.

 

It was best not to linger where he was unwelcome.

 

However when Sherlock came back about fifteen minutes later, tea-tray restocked and in hand, the detective scowled deeply at whatever expression he saw on his flatmate's face. Setting the tray down on the table, Sherlock resolutely stood in front of John, spindly arms crossed over his chest in a gaze that was thunderous.

 

“No.”

 

John looked up, quirking a pale brow tiredly. He did not understand.

“....No?”

 

“This will not do. This....  _This moping._ ”

 

John blinked slowly, trying to understand Sherlock's mood even as the man gestured in distaste at the soldier's general crumpled posture. The detective noted the slight disbelief lighting in John's eyes, as if a part of him believed all of this to be some kind of strange dream. The thought was foolish, and Sherlock mixed in milk with his tea and sat himself down opposite to John, refusing to coddle him despite how his fingers itched to hold the man close.

 

After a stretching of silence in which John could audibly hear the clicking of his own knuckled as he cracked them nervously, the army doctor gathered his courage and spoke.

“So. Now you know.”

 

He winced at the weakness in his own words, the lame affirmation. Sherlock hummed slightly, neither supportive nor disagreeing with the statement. John sipped his tea, despite the fact that it was still too hot. If only so that he didn't have to stare into his friend's all-knowing gaze longer than was absolutely necessary.

A small, hysterical bubble of amusement, mingled with horror and hysteria, broke from John's lips. Giggling, he looked to the detective, and found himself unable to stop. The shaking puffs of laughter filled him, filled the flat almost eerily, their edge strange and too high. Sherlock remained silent, although his dark brown lowered in what only John and a few others would be able to recognise as concern.

 

When John could speak again, he clutched at his side and grinned. It was a sickly thing, filled with shame and guilt.

 

“You have questions.”

 

And then his lips trembled, once before the soldier's front came back on, and John's shoulders straightened. Captain Watson would not show emotion, even if inside his heart was a battlefield.

 

Sherlock wasted no time mincing words.

He sensed meaningless comfort would do no good in a situation such as this.

Setting down his half-empty cup of tea, the detective leaned forward and began.

 

****

“I was nearly ten before I finally got out of the Foster Care system and into a proper home.” John replied easily to Sherlock's question of his past, clinically detached and polite as he gripped his cup between his hands. Its warmth was soothing, grounding him to the present even as his eyes were far away and tainted with something cold and worrisome.

 

“My first family was called the Mathers. They were fairly decent people, from what I can remember of them anyway. Once a kid in Care reaches a certain age, people don't tend to adopt them as much. This couple specifically chose older kids, partly because the Mrs had a bad hip. They were warm people, good people...”

 

John trailed off, staring into the liquid depths of his cup before seeming to gather up the courage to continue.

“The Home told them of my condition. But.... I don't think they really believed in it until... Until one of the older kids got into a fight with me. It was over something stupid, they took my favourite book or something, I don't even know. He was a lot bigger than me, nearly sixteen. Anger management issues. I remember the back of his hand smacking me. That's when everything went kind of dark.”

John sipped his tea, voice never wavering. Sherlock remained dead silent.

 

“The Mathers came home to find me apparently beating the older kid close to death with my bare hands as well as an umbrella. I don't remember, but the story goes they had to physically tear me away from the kid and drag me to my room. Then the wife took the kid to the hospital, and the husband kept an eye on the house. Apparently a few hours later I came out of the room, and I remember this- was completely confused by the way the rest of the other kids cowered around me. Mr. Mathers took me to my therapist. By the end of the month though, I was back in Foster Care.”

 

Sherlock found himself imagining the scenario, John, a small and scared little boy. He would have been shorter definitely, and his eyes probably wider. Not so many lines creasing his face. Skinny, if the state of Foster Care systems were still as deplorable as Sherlock suspected them to be. Scuffed trainers probably, and John had always been fond of blues and reds. The image he saw in his mind's eye quickly transformed. The eyes turned dark, and Conrad's snarl marred those features. It would have made a chilling sight, to see a boy normally so quiet and subdued become a monster in all of a second.

 

He kept his voice steady as he continued to prod.

“How old were you with the next house?” Because there had obviously been more.

 

“Thirteen.”

John answered promptly, fingers still flexing around the cup of tea cradled in his lap.

“The Winterlyks. Foreign family. A fair amount of money actually. Didn't speak much English but thought it'd make a nice public image to adopt a bunch of children. There were six of us in that house.”

 

“What happened?”

Sherlock asked, wanting to know.

Not wanting to know. His throat felt unusually tight. Like he was being slowly strangled.

 

“Found me in the bathroom in the middle of the night. I'd slit my wrists and was bleeding out in the tub. They put me on anti-depressants after that, but it's hard to adjust the medication properly when you're never the same person going into each appointment.”

 

“Are you still on medication?”

Sherlock interrupted in some surprise, not recalling anything stronger than sleeping pills amongst John's belongings. The army doctor sighed, shifting a little as a slow flush crawled over his cheeks. Sherlock deduced the source of that shame in an instant.

 

“Stopped taking them when you returned home then. No, before that. Just before you left for the army. Any particular reason? Or did they not help? Let me guess... some kind of anti-depressant, anti-psychotics as well... and..... stress-relievers?”

 

John's silence was telling, even if after a moment Sherlock's flatmate gruffly defended his decision.

“They barely helped at all, and besides that half the time I felt like I was in.... In a fog.... I went through most of my teenaged life on pill after pill. Then the war came, and it got better. I got better. It seemed.... It just seemed unnecessary once I turned eighteen and could make my own choices.”

 

John set down his cup, rubbed the palms of his hands on his jeans. He expected argument from Sherlock, some kind of objection. Defiantly he glared at his friend, daring him to judge. When no damnation fell from the detective's lips, the army doctor seemed to lose some of his iron. Slumping, he continued doggedly on.

 

“The Quincey's were next, but they were abusive to all of the kids, verbally anyway. I didn't stay long there. Too many things happened. I was destructive to both myself and others, and turned into a bit of a loaded bomb. Jumped at the smallest noise, started crying for no reason. Waking up from night terrors only to find myself standing in rooms that were not my bed. I became difficult to place because of my track record.”

He smiled to himself sadly.

Sherlock wished he could make that smile somehow appear less strained and agonising.

 

“Finally, I was sixteen and sent to a military-base home. Kind of a Foster Home, but some kind of new age experimental thing. There were a few other kids there, but I don't remember much... My blackouts were more.... frequent then....From there I joined the army. They took my good track record from my time at the military base and... overlooked my other issues.”

 

The detective's eyes narrowed slightly. Never in his life before had he heard of a military-based Foster Care system. Yet it was evident now that he looked that John had been surrounded by soldiers for most of his life. It was ingrained in his habits, how pristinely he made the bed every morning (the sheet so tight you could bounce a coin against it) and the way he woke without hesitation at five thirty in the morning every weekday. It was in his hands, steady despite their tension, less likely to tremble when faced with stress as opposed to boredom.

 

Everything about John screamed battle-ready, and had Sherlock not been aware of the very thin line his flatmate walked all the time between missing the war and letting it haunt him, he might have been more impressed. As it was now, he was more afraid. Afraid of all the unknown variables. Worried over everything and anything that might have happened to John while his Alters were at play. His voice soft, the words slipped out before the detective could stop them. His voice was almost pleading.

 

“You asked me to kill you.... When you weren't you...” John flinched physically, setting his cup down and rubbing at his face in horror. He looked to the detective with a mix of guilt and shame.

 

“Jesus, Sherlock I'm so,  _so_ sorry-”

 

Before he could finish the apology however the detective stood, reaching around the table and embracing John fiercely in a rare and yet significant hug. It was the bone-crushing type, the kind that made all of the air leave the doctor's lungs and leave him gasping. Still Sherlock did not let go, clinging to the man until their wildly fluctuating hearts synced together as one.

 

John could smell him, his nose pressed against the detective's raven curls. Fresh mint and chemicals and the smoky hint of tobacco. He had been smoking again. Then again as John ran his tongue over his teeth, he realised that so had he. The detective's voice was rough and deep with a nameless emotion, something molten and angry and only barely contained.

 

“Don't be an  _idiot_ , John. Don't apologise for things you have no control over.”

Sherlock wanted to say more, but to do so might cause the careful lines both men had drawn around each other to dissipate or tear. Frankly, Sherlock had dealt with enough stress for one night. He finally drew away with a small sigh, glancing once at the still guitar that rested by the window before turning back to his friend.

 

John appeared smaller, although not quite as broken-looking as before. Just tired. Tired and ashamed. Tired of never having complete control. He looked up at Sherlock, and his expression was so utterly lost and wandering that it was a wonder that the detective managed to resist embracing him again.

John Watson had that affect on him.

 

Sherlock was beginning to wonder if there really wasn't  _anything_ this man couldn't convince him somehow to do.

 

“I don't think anything else's gonna happen today.” John mumbled finally, yawning into his hand. His head was throbbing, a dull and insistent ache against the base of his spine. If he wasn't so tired he might have been worried, however he felt as if he had been running a marathon in his sleep for days. Everything ached. Everything was lethargic and sleep-filled.

 

He almost slumped against the couch, except that a pair of strong, wiry arms demanded he stay upright.

“You should sleep in your room tonight. Tomorrow will go.... smoother if you aren't hurting and grouchy.”

 

John wanted to argue, but he was honestly warm and comfortable and felt inexplicably safe. Drowsily, he didn't fight as he was hoisted to his feet, Sherlock right by his side as he was pushed gently along towards the stairs. Blissful white noise filled John's head, and for just a moment if he closed his eyes, he could imagine that this was what relief felt like. Bone-jellifying relief.

 

Sherlock knew.

 

Sherlock  _knew._

 

The detective knew about him, his freakish condition, and yet here he was steering him to bed instead of out into the streets. John felt a warmth swelling in his chest, something fiery and furiously bright. He turned, leaning into Sherlock's tall chest, and muttered two words.

 

“Thank you.”

 

The detective sounded vaguely perplexed. John could feel those elegant fingers tighten against his shoulders.

 

“Thank you for what.... John?”

 

“F'r n't leavin'....”

The army doctor sighed, and then promptly fell asleep, leaning against his friend as a pillow. Rolling his eyes and yet smiling slightly, Sherlock hoisted John up on his shoulder. The soldier didn't even stir.

Making his way upstairs, Sherlock resolved from that point on to never leave.

 

Even if it killed him, he could not abandon the image in his mind of a lonely little boy with dark blue eyes staring out at the world.

Longing for only a friend.

 

The two cups of tea went cold in the living room. Neither man found they particularly cared. They slept, John in his bed and Sherlock on the floor even as dawn came and went outside. 

Neither stirred, lost in their own minds and dreams that swirled about them like a mother's hug drawing them near.


	15. The Doors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this is a bit late!! ^_^ Things in this story are starting to pick up and here I am writing essays continuously *cries*
> 
> I hope you all enjoy :D

 

 

The next day came, and with it the stress from the past couple of nights seemed to dissolve like snow during Spring. The sun streamed through the curtains of John's room, rousing the army doctor from his rest slowly. John blinked, winced and rolled over sleepily. His mind was slow to remember the events of before, for a moment he was only aware of the delicious ache in his limbs and the warmth surrounding his body like a cocoon. He stretched, yawning hugely as he sat up-

Only to let out a yelp of surprise as he caught sight of a shadowed figure curled on the floor of his room.

 

Sherlock immediately woke to the sound of John's distress, half on his feet before he realised that his flatmate was merely waking up. For a moment the ex army doctor stared at him with dawning horror and shame, a low flush of mortification crawling over his cheeks before he abruptly spun and buried his face in his pillow.

 

John's voice was muffled by the fabric, but it still sounded clearly to Sherlock.

“...... _Please_ tell me last night didn't happen..... _Please..._ ”

 

Despite the severity of the situation, the detective tried his best to be light-hearted for his flatmate's sake.

 

“You know, that sentence in any other situation in which I was found in your bedroom might come across with entirely different meaning.”

 

His flatmate snorted, rising wearily onto his elbows to glare at Sherlock's curled form.

“Did you even get any sleep like that?” John asked, the tired tone in his voice dripping with a familiar warm affection that the detective had admittedly missed. He straightened, ignoring the small aches of protest his spine made as he brushed John's concern off.

“Got what was necessary. Now. Breakfast.”

 

Not waiting for an invitation, Sherlock rose, crossing the room to drag John bodily over to the edge of the bed. In a tumble of limbs and blanket, his flatmate spluttered in surprised amusement.

“Suddenly taking a liking to regular meals are we? What's brought all this on?”

 

The detective ignored him, nudging John's slippers towards his bare feet even as he looked up at him with piercing blue eyes.

 

“You need to eat, and I need answers. I figured killing two birds with one stone would cost me nothing. Now,  _up_.”

 

To emphasize his point, Sherlock patted at John's knees before tugging at the man's shoulders. His flatmate put on a very beleaguered sigh, but did not try to fight.

He knew the look in the detective's eyes, the one that was determined and focused.

Chances were there was no way he was escaping this discussion, not that he would have even if he had been given the chance. The events of last night made it obvious to John that he could no longer feign ignorance to his condition, and no longer insist Sherlock do the same. If he was a threat to himself or others, he had always promised he'd do what he could to make sure his other selves couldn't act on their desires.

 

Grimly, John wondered to himself just how long it would take before Sherlock would pull away. Reject him, pry too far into his past and find something he couldn't fix. Because so many therapists had tried, so many families and doctor's and mental specialists had attempted to fix John Watson. And yet here he was, trusting an alleged “amateur” detective to help him. John knew it was mad. Knew it probably wouldn't work.

 

Yet a small kernel of hope glowed inside him, because Sherlock was no longer looking at him piteously. He was no longer treating John like he was made of glass. Like a dark moment before a blazing dawn, the detective treated John like he always had, demanding tea even as he himself cracked two eggs into a frying pan. Nearly setting the pan on fire fifteen minutes later when he became distracted by one of his experiments (it involved lots of socks and acid, John didn't ask). He groaned good-naturedly when John demanded he eat a spoonful of the eggs he just made, and complimented his flatmate's tea-making abilities with pride.

It was almost.... comfortable, despite the elephant in the room. And when finally Sherlock did get to his point, he did not beat around the bush. He merely set down his cup, looked John in the eye, and murmured

“I am not a psychologist, but I've done some research. Let me see what I can do.”

It's the closest thing to a plea John's ever heard come out of the man's mouth. So, finishing his eggs with one last spoonful, John agrees.

Sherlock's curling smile somehow brings to him a small measure of safety, even as his hand began to tremble at his side, and he could almost  _hear_ the sounds of shadows not-quite-there writhing in his head.

 

****

“From the research I've done, it seems to be that dissociative disorders are rare not well-researched.”

 

They sat at the kitchen table, Sherlock's laptop open as those elegant fingers typed in bookmarks and searches from the past couple of days so that John could see. The detective wanted to be careful with this, and John respected honesty more than careful half-truths. So he didn't hesitate to show the man each of the tabs he had found most useful in his research. John read over his shoulder, a feeling of unease settling into his gut as he scanned over words such as  _psychosis_ and  _childhood abuse._

 

“They don't have much nice to say about it, do they?”

 

The detective makes a low sound in the back of his throat that could very well be either an agreement or a protest, the arrow of the laptop hovering over a single sentence. John read it aloud.

 

#### “ _Dissociative identity disorder (DID)_

_This is the most complex dissociative disorder. It is also known as multiple personality disorder ( MPD). This has led some to see it as a _ [ _personality disorder_ ](http://www.mind.org.uk/information-support/types-of-mental-health-problems/personality-disorders/) _,_ _although it is not. The defining feature is severe change in identity._ _If you experience DID, you may experience the shifts of identity as separate personalities. Each identity may be in control of your behaviour and thoughts at different times. Each has a distinctive pattern of thinking and relating to the world. If you also have very severe amnesia, it may mean that one identity may have no awareness of what happens when another identity is in control. The amnesia can be one-way or two-way. Identity confusion is usually moderate to severe. DID also includes severe depersonalisation and derealisation.”_

  
  


Sherlock's deep, rumbling voice halted John from continuing, although his flatmate hadn't planned on reading any further. In truth the whole thing made him feel rather nauseous, and he gripped the back of the detective's chair tightly enough that his knuckles turned white with suppressed nerves.

  
  


“A coping mechanism, then. According to this site anyway, a way for you to detach yourself from difficult or stressful situations. And yet you do not seem to simply use your Alters just to cope. Rather, it seems they've become so ingrained in your psyche that they can take over your consciousness at will.”

  
  


The sound John made was pained and small, edging controlled hysteria as he chuckled weakly.

“Yeah, well. Most of my therapists seemed to think it had to do with the car crash, although that doesn't make sense given the symptoms of my disorder.”

  
  


Sherlock knew immediately what John was implying.

“Dissociative disorder has only been reported in cases where the patient was a victim of prolonged and extreme abuse. Often sexual. And yet from your words, it appears that your therapists were unable to convince your Alter's to reveal the nature of your trauma.”

  
  


Silence. Both of them taking in Sherlock's words and facing them. The detective felt inside him an irrational and violent urge to break something, to shoot at the walls of the flat. The bubbling fury only heightened when John said very quietly

“They never stayed with me long enough to find out. I always wound up hurting them or hurting myself before they could...”

  
  


Most people would have been distressed to hear such a thing, or at least have gone quiet. Sherlock however appeared to do neither, grunting in affirmation and rising to his feet to pace the length of the kitchen in agitation.

“We need to find a way.... Preferably one that allows for a controlled environment....Something without lasting traumatic effect or at least little of it...”

He carried on to himself, seeming to forget John or the fact that his flatmate was no longer quite following.

  
  


“Sherlock....”

The man murmured, but the detective didn't reply. John rose slowly to his feet, cautious as he crept forward. The detective didn't appear to notice. Carefully, John rested a hand on his arm, trying to get his attention.

“What are you-”

  
  


“Hypnosis.”

John blinked, looking at Sherlock if he had gone mad. The detective rolled his eyes impatiently, spinning to grip John's arms tightly and propel him back towards the chair.

  
  


“We need to get your Alter's communicating not only with you and me, but with each other. To do that, I'm going to need to be able to call each of them out at will.”

His flatmate's eyes widened in panic, and John let out a strangled protest before he was hushed by Sherlock's firm

“ _John.”_

  
  


The ex-army doctor tried to hold his gaze. Just for a moment. Then with a defeated sigh he pinched the bridge of his nose, voice pained.

“I could end up hurting you.”

  
  


“But you won't.”

  
  


“You could end up getting one angry, or they all might decide that's it's better if I sneak out in the night.”

  
  


Sherlock's voice is unshakable.

“I won't let them make that choice without your consent.”

  
  


A long pause, drawn out and stretched seemingly forever. Finally, the heart of John's fears came, whispered and tense.

“I don't.... _None_ of them are me.... I just want them gone.... _None of them are me._ ”

  
  


John kept his eyes closed, afraid of what he might glance on Sherlock's face. He kept his head bowed until long, elegant fingers gripped his shoulders, and a low, rumbling voice sounded by his ear. Hesitant, but sure.

“John....I will not let them take over. Not completely. Can you trust me? Do you think you can trust your memories being laid out like this?”

An unspoken question.  _Do you believe I won't run?_

  
  


Loaded.

Tense.

After what felt like an eternity, John breathed. The folds of his jumpers half-covered his hand, which went almost casually to brush over one of Sherlock's. The man's voice was afraid, but determined.

“More than anyone I've ever known.”

  
  


****

“Try to relax.”

 

“Okay.”

John sat, shoulders tense and hands twitching against his knees. His eyes were closed as he curled up in his favourite chair. Sherlock couldn't quite halt the rolling of his eyes.

 

“Try harder.”

 

His friend frowned, the expression scrunching up the lines of his forehead, but after a long-suffering sigh forced his limbs to relax and his thoughts to clear. It was difficult, to dismiss the initial panic that wanted to set over him when anything to do with testing was around him. A long ingrained preservation instinct, from exactly where John didn't know. He found himself listening rather intently to the gentle noise of Sherlock's breathing, the steady rhythm grounding him even as the detective voice washed lowly over him like a wave.

 

“.....John.....”

 

“....Yes?”

 

“I need you to listen to the sound of my voice.....You don't have to respond verbally, just listen....”

 

John did. He listened to the soft huffs of breath that Sherlock released, heard the faint squeak of his shoes as they slid across the hardwood floor. John could feel himself fall into a sort of lull, floating across a still in time even as his friend's voice carried on.

 

“I need you to count with me.... In your head... I'm going to be counting downwards from thirty. When I finish, I want you to be completely calm and relaxed. I will count again when I want you to come back to me, and in the end I shall use the word “Earl Grey” To end the session. You may ask me to use the word at any time if you feel uncomfortable or distressed. Do you hear me? Good. Ready? Thirty.....Twenty-nine......twenty eight.....”

 

Sherlock knew the mechanics behind hypnotism. Though he had never really attempted it before, it had fascinated him as a child. Though it was true it had its faults and flaws, there was much about the whole procedure that had merit. Particularly because Sherlock was already sure that John's personalities existed in the first place. He could lure them out, preferably with little to no resistance, and at the same time keep John in control. As he watched his friend's muscles slowly turn into jelly, he felt a small, affectionate smile for John's complete trust in him work its way over his features.

“Four....Three.....Two.....One.....”

 

His friend's breathing was steady, even. No part of John twitched or shook or trembled, and he would have seemed asleep, if it weren't for the barest flickering of his eyes from beneath his closed lids. Sherlock mentally congratulated himself on a job well done, seeing his flatmate was already sinking deeper into himself. He leaned forward slightly, hands clasped between his knees.

 

“Who are you?”

 

John answered easily, his voice serene.

“I am John Hamish Watson.”

 

Sherlock nodded to himself before he answered verbally.

“Good, John. When I count down from five, I want you to picture yourself in a room. Some place that is safe for you. A haven. Five....Four.....Three....Can you picture it? Good. Two.....One....”

 

John's mumble was distant, slightly fogged with dream.

“I'm in my room.”

 

The detective gave a faint smirk of amusement. He might have guessed.

“Good, John. Now John, can you tell me... Is anyone in this room with you?”

 

Here was the tricky part. Enabling the other personalities to step forward. Faintly, John's blonde brow furrowed, and he turned his head slightly as if he were looking around. Eyes still closed, the army doctor mumbled.

“No....but.... But there's doors. Doors and....and voices....”

 

The doctor physically flinched then, cradling his head in his hands and seeming to try and curl into himself. Sherlock hastily spoke to relieve his fear.

“It's okay. They're not going to hurt you, I promise....John, can you describe the doors to me? Any of them? Can you tell me the noises you hear?”

 

John was slightly more tense than before, but he drummed his hand against the armrest of his chair and answered tersely.

 

“There's.... There's one that's bright red. Like the colour of blood. Shouting's coming out from it, horrible noises. Crashing and banging.....There's a little one, right next to it.....I can.... I can hear laughter.... children? Must be....”

 

_Conrad and Claude then._

Sherlock mused. He steepled his fingers against his lips, thoroughly fascinated.

 

“What else?”

 

John's voice went lower, a small, distressed noise leaving his lips.

“A door the colour of sand.... I can hear... I can hear Bill Murray behind it, shouting. He's calling our troops....It's the day I got shot....”

 

“You don't have to open that one John, if you don't want to.” Sherlock answered immediately, soothing the man's fears. “Any other ones?”

 

John's voice was small.

“A blue door. The colour of..... Of cobalt and an ocean..... Sherlock.... _God Sherlock-_”

 

“John, don't focus on that one, do you hear me?” The detective's tone was immediately sharp, already guessing who's door that was. John fell silent, but his hand continued to flex, to tap. Nervousness belaying the calm sleep.

 

“There's a pink door, almost red but not red like the other one...There's music coming from it....Glasses breaking....”

 

_Sneak._

Sherlock thought, and deliberately had John navigate as far away from it as he could. He did not feel quite prepared as of yet to outcraft John's possibly smartest personality. That should have been all of them, except Sherlock knew it wasn't. Because John's body was still slightly tense, and his friend looked like he wanted to say something.

After a moment, he did.

 

“....There's one last door.” His friend said, almost silently. To which Sherlock's brow raised. One last personality. His voice was cautious. This could be an opportunity.

 

“...John...Can you open it?”

 

After a long pause, his friend shook his head. John's lip snagged in between his teeth, belaying his confusion as he mumbled

 

“It's.... Black....Just plain black... But there's no doorknob....It's gone.....Just.... there's nothing there....”

 

The detective didn't know what to make of it. There was no answer, and so he moved on.

“Okay. John, I want you to pick the door you are the most comfortable with opening. It can be any of them, whichever you choose. When you open the door, I want you to let whoever is on the other side through to your room, but you do not have to leave. Let them speak to me, but don't let yourself fall asleep. Can you do that John? Okay....When I count down from ten. Ten....”

 

The detective counted down slowly, and all too soon reached one. Half-holding his breath, Sherlock waited for the change, any clue of a shift, and was not disappointed.

 

He was not surprised when John's posture shifted into something loose and playful, when his legs crossed and John opened his eyes and they were filled with childlike wonder and glee. No, Sherlock was not surprised to see Claude's slightly wild grin flash at him.

 

What  _did_ surprise him was how the child's eyes grew round, and how John clutched at his ears like they burned as Claude looked to him and said in wonder filled with incredulity

“ _He's awake.”_


	16. Claude's Story~ Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas!!! :D and happy holidays and a happy new year!!!

 

 

 

It was like a strange dream, a sensation of being awake and yet.... not. An inbetween from reality and the realm of dreams, John floated placidly caught between dark and light in a sticky, cool grey. It clung to him, somehow dimming his body, making it blend into a canvas of faded layers of cloth. He got the distinct impression that he was awake, and yet he could see nothing. No Sherlock, no  _ **221 B**_ , just.... grey.

 

Then there was the girl.

 

She floated up to him from the black, skin as white as snow in the midst of a blue storm, blonde hair curling down her cheeks in loose waves. She had the kind of rounded cheeks that looked as prone to smile as they did to cry, and her eyes were dark brown as sleepily, she woke. For a moment she didn't seem to notice John, instead kicking her way upwards, towards the light. The ex-army doctor could have sworn in her place there had once been a door, one the same colour as the dress that flounced about her in crinoline and lace. She smiled at him in what seemed to be pleasant surprise, kicking her way over in the strange floating water in which they were both submerged. Her hands were ice cold as they reached for him, and John drew away, unsure of who it was he was facing.

 

The closer she got, the more she reminded him of his vague memories of his sister. Something about the blonde hair, and the lilt to her smile as she laughed at his nervousness. She spoke to him with the sort of confidant secrecy that little children used for their older siblings.

 

“I'm so glad to finally meet you. I hope we can be friends now!”

 

She stood on tip-toe then, pulling him down the rest of the way to plant a kiss on his cheek. Then she was running off, chasing after a distance voice calling for her.

 

It took John awhile to realise who it was.

 

Sherlock sounded far away, and yet he had never seemed so close.

 

****

 

Claude looked at Sherlock with a combination of awe and confusion, peering about the flat as if it somehow held the answer to her every inquiry. He feet kicked lightly from the seat of John's chair, occasionally being shifted to cross Indian-style as a hand came up to pick lightly at the skin around John's pointer finger. There was a familiar surge of restless energy about John's figure, a renewal of youth that seemed to melt away some of the tension in his flatmate's shoulders. Sherlock could imagine that John might have been an extraordinarily sunny child, if circumstances had perhaps blessed him with a different sort of past.

 

As it was, Claude seemed to take no issue in heartily greeting the detective, moving from the chair to throw her arms around Sherlock like an overly-excited little girl might. Except John was a five foot six tall ex-army doctor, and though he was by no means fat he had with him the weight of muscles that had been to war. Sherlock's thin frame in comparison stood little chance, and the detective soon found himself winded as John's strong arms squeezed about him tightly. Only his somewhat garbled but intelligible squawk of protest finally made the little girl giggle and release him.

 

“John's all red now.” She confirmed with him, and her own cheeks were pink with amusement and excitement as she used John's face to smile. “He's telling me not to do that. I don't think I'll listen.”

 

John pressed a finger to his lips, shushing and begging Sherlock to secrecy. The detective, still feeling slightly rumpled after the sudden physical affection coughed, righting himself quickly enough even though his heartbeat seemed insistent on pounding out of his chest. Ridiculous. He smoothed down the lines of his suit even as he gathered his thoughts, taking in how Claude seemed to be in a very good mood. There was no trace of worry or the haunted expression she had last left with, and as it was she seemed to hold no real hatred or mistrust of him. John picked a good persona to start off with, Sherlock concluded. Claude would most likely be the easiest not only to get information out of but to handle, should things get out of hand. As it was, John seemed more interested in the actual flat than the detective himself. He had noted that Claude appeared to get distracted quite easily, and this time was no different. Sherlock watched with some amusement when John stood to walk over the mantel of the fireplace, picking up a rather macabre ornament of the Detective's, precisely the skull. John's hands treated it with delicate fascination, his eyes wide and childlike as he turned the object over in his hands, fingers tracing over the polished edges with interest.

 

Looking up at his reflection, Sherlock saw how John's face seemed to be somehow more trusting, even as he carefully set the skull back in its place like he was afraid it might shatter into dust at any moment.

 

Claude's footsteps were also lighter than John's, used to being silent. Sherlock found that his flatmate could be almost noiseless in this form, and wasn't entirely sure if he liked it. It seemed that Claude could be very useful to the Alters for running away, and that was something the detective wouldn't allow. At least, not without John's explicit consent. His thoughts were broken by the clearing of John's throat, Claude coming to stand almost shyly beside him, her hands clasped behind her back like she was meeting an admired idol. Sherlock tried his best not to preen at the image, although his petty ego quietly hummed in satisfaction at having yet another aspect of John focused solely on him.

 

“Mr. Holmes, how did you do it?” Claude finally turned to address him, John's blue eyes making her question seem rather innocent and mild. However Sherlock was cautious, because he suspected that there was cleverness within that child's façade. He'd made the mistake of underestimating John's Alters before, and he wasn't going to do it now. He kept his expression neutral, although he did use warmer language when addressing the child. He didn't want to upset John after all, no matter what age he was. No matter what aspect of him it was.

 

“How did I do what? I assume you mean how is John still conscious?”

 

When Claude nodded, Sherlock tried to figure out a way in which to explain it to someone under the age of twelve. His fingers drummed on the edge of his seat, and he was tempted at once to make up some foolish story of magic and myth. However his more logical half insisted that such things were tedious, and that John would later most likely not appreciate being talked down to. Finally, he settled on an appropriate metaphor to explain it.

 

“Have you ever seen a sleepwalker, Claude?” When she nodded her head in confirmation, Sherlock was encouraged to continue. “John's in a state much like sleepwalking at the moment. He is present and yet is also 'asleep'. He will remember this conversation, and he knows what you will say and what you do, but as of now he'll still be unable to control it. We're trying, well  _I'm_ trying something, an experiment that John approves of. I want to see... I want to know if I can get you and John and all the Alters working together, so that there's less... fighting. Inside your head. Would you like that, less fighting?”

 

Claude made a show of considering his question, her tongue sticking out in thought before she nodded and grinned widely.

“I want Conrad to be not angry! And I want my sister to be not sad. Can you do that, Mr. Holmes?”

 

This was better than the detective had hoped for. He hadn't planned on broaching the subject of the other personalities with Claude, but if she knew why some of them acted the way they did, why John's psyche thought them necessary to his survival, then perhaps he could help before he'd even fully gotten started with breaking down their personalities into a file within his head. He smiled at John, earning a grin from the child inside, and his voice was warm and soothing as he nodded back towards the chair across from him.

 

“I'd very much like to help in any way I can, Claude.” And Sherlock was not lying when he said those words. “But today I want to be focused on you. I want to get to know  _you_  better, and I've bought something for you, something I think you'll like.”

 

This was a part he hadn't quite told John. Sherlock still wasn't sure just how much the Alter's heard in their interactions, and he had wanted to surprise the child now positively wriggling in excitement in John's seat. He leaned forward and rummaged underneath his chair, searching until he found what he was looking for with a small exclamation of triumph. Lifting the box in his hands, Sherlock smiled slightly in triumph.

 

Claude gasped in delight. In the detective's hand was a board game. Not just any board game either, no.

 

_Cluedo._

 

Sherlock, sensing the child's eagerness, quirked an eyebrow in question.

“Here is the deal. I will play with you this game and within reason any other games you happen to find or create at any time you wish. However in exchange, you must do something for me.”

 

Claude cocked her head to the side, blue eyes narrowed in interest and hesitation. Her hands twitched, ached to hold the game in her hands. She'd never owned anything of her own before. Never had something she could claim was solely  _hers_ and hers  _alone._ On the one hand, she wanted it. Badly. She wanted to play games, wanted to have Mr. Holmes as a friend. She wanted to be a little girl, and have someone to play tag or hide and go seek with. She wanted someone other than her family members to know her.

 

But she was afraid.

She could feel the fear, thrumming in her heart. She musn't trust anyone, that's what her brothers told her. Even her other brother didn't trust strangers. And to most of the Alters, they still viewed Mr. Holmes as an outsider. She bit her lip, caught in hesitation. He wasn't mean. She knew that, it was firmly seated in her gut. An instinct. Sherlock Holmes was not a mean man. He wouldn't hurt her. If he even tried, Conrad would be out in a second. But he wouldn't.

….Would he?

 

Sherlock felt her gaze trying to take him apart, see underneath his mask of neutrality. John's blue eyes were strangely pleading as he looked the detective over, trying to guess his ulterior motives.

 

It was John's small, gentle voice that in the end let Claude make the choice. His light tone felt strange in her ears, but it was filled with certainty and trust.

 

_He won't hurt us. He'd never hurt you._

 

And the little girl nodded after a moment, jaw tightening in determination. She looked at Sherlock Holmes with a gaze suddenly made of steel.

“What do I have to do?”

 

Sherlock Holmes smiled.

“All you have to do... Is tell me about yourself.”

 

****

She was born amidst screaming and fear. That much, she could recall. She remembered waking to darkness, the four walls of an unknown closet, and she could remember yelling outside. She had been born in one of the care homes, in the middle of a brawl, really. John later would not remember why he was found tucked away tightly into one of the broom cupboards of the place, nor why he had insisted that “The Bad People” were going to hurt him. He wouldn't even remember who the people were, only that they had left him with yet another blackout and yet another feeling of distress and unease.

But Claude would. Claude remembered everything. Even things that happened when she wasn't alive. Even things that hurt all of them when she had only been an idea.

 

Sherlock's voice cut through her thoughts. Firm questions, directional ones. He did not want to traumatize the little girl before him. Only guide her to understanding. His voice was calm and low.

 

“What's your name?”

 

“Claude.”

 

“No last or middle name?”

This time, John answered in plural.

“We find those unnecessary. It is not needed.”

 

Sherlock nodded, pencil already making sharp little notes in his pen-pad. He didn't need it of course, but it would be good for John to later on read. The detective's voice did not waver as he continued.

 

“When were you born, Claude? How old was John?”

 

Hesitation, thought. Claude licked her lower lip in consideration, eyes screwed shut in memory. When she answered, it came out almost like a question.

“....Ten?... No.... Eleven...”

 

Sherlock nodded minutely, despite the fact that his subject would not see. After the car-crash then. His pen poised to write, his quicksilver eyes glinted in calculation.

“Do you remember things before? Events that happened before John called on you?”

 

Wordlessly, the little girl nodded. However, she did not offer any further explanation. Her hands were firmly gripping the armrests of John's chair, and her breathing hitched slightly. The detective called to her in assurance, trying to steady the beginnings of panic that seemed to be crawling over John.

 

“Claude.... What's wrong?”

 

John's voice was small, afraid. It was tinged with uncertainty and a blind kind of panic.

“It's.... Shouting... Everyone's mad at me... I'm hiding. I don't want to be found, please-” And a small whimper escaped John's lips, making Sherlock's eyebrows crease in concern. “Please don't let them find me!” 

 

It took Sherlock a moment to recognise the beginnings of a flashback. He was hasty to avoid that from happening. Reaching out to ground his friend by the touch of his hand, he kept his voice a constant reminder of where Claude was. Who she was with.

“It's okay. It's just a memory. Do you want to talk about it, or do you want me to continue asking questions?” A moment of silence, and the detective tried again. “...Should I deduce it?” And this time, Claude nodded a hasty yes, unable to speak further.

 

Still keeping his hand pressed against John's, Sherlock's eyes swept over his friend's form, taking in the elevated heartbeat, the mention of fighting. The way Claude couldn't seem to sit still, and her instinct to curl inwards as if expecting blows to fall on her at any moment. The detective's brain put the pieces together at once.

“You were born in the care home, which one I am not sure but a lower end one. Many of the kids were abusive towards you because you were smaller and deemed “mentally unsound”. One of the children decided to pick a fight with you, but he did so when there weren't any supervisors around. Ah, no. There were little supervisors to begin with, the place was running on a borderline bankrupt budget then. You didn't want to fight though. Perhaps you were tired of it, perhaps you were afraid to because you'd gotten into fights before. You hid. John hid and when he did so, you were born because he was terrified, and he didn't know what to do. He was afraid....” And Sherlock trailed off, a sour taste filling his mouth like vinegar “You both were very afraid.”

 

Claude's voice was small. Fragile.

“Not because of them.” She said, and her eyes opened and she looked at Sherlock pleadingly. It was an appeal to understand, to know. “Not because of the other kids. Because-”

But she couldn't continue, because she was too scared. Everything was suddenly too hot, too cloying for Claude to handle. She felt John stir inside and sucked breath through her teeth, attempting to stay calm. She had to be good, she didn't want to upset Mr. Holmes, but she didn't want to talk any more. The conflicting feelings must have been evident on her face, because the detective sighed and moved away. He kept his voice steady, did not shout at her, nor did his features seem to belay any semblance of disappointment. Still, Claude felt like a failure. She felt tears, hot with betrayal, fill her eyes.

 

Sherlock didn't like seeing John cry. There was something inherently wrong about it. Partly because the tears John was now desperately trying to keep from shedding were not the tears of a grown man. They were the open sobs of a child trying to control themselves and failing, and though the detective claimed to be immune from much of the sentimental side of things, it was rather wounding to watch.

 

Claude let out a stuttering cry.

“M'sorry. Can't. M'sorry!” And She suddenly dove for Sherlock's waist, burrowing her face against his lap as she heaved heavy sobs. John's voice was panicked and high, and the detective almost flinched when Claude begged “Please don't get mad!  _Please!_ ”

 

And though Sherlock's mind was blazing, trying to reign in his anger at whoever made John react in this way to even the hint of failure, the detective managed to stay calm enough to stroke the top of Claude's head.

“I'm not mad. You did very well for a first time, Claude. Very well indeed.”

 

Sniffing, the little girl pressed John's chin against Sherlock's chest, the warm wet of John's tears slowly becoming a familiar sensation to the detective. His friend's voice was low.

“C-can we play  _Cluedo_  some other time? M'tired.... Want John to take over.”

 

The last thing Claude heard before she slipped away into the darkness again was Sherlock's promise.

“I vow to play  _Cluedo_  as many times, at _any_ time you wish.”

 

Then, the detective counted down, and used the safeword to bring John back to him.

 

“Earl Grey.”

 


	17. Hidden Psychopath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay more chapters! :333333 
> 
> And this is where the plot truly gets rolling X3 
> 
> I hope you enjoy! :D

 

 

 

Both he and Sherlock were some what amused and surprised at how quickly the little girl took to just materialising, especially as John became more skilled at keeping himself awake through the process. Claude quickly grew a fierce attachment to her “brilliant detective” and it showed as plainly as day in the way the child unabashedly allowed herself to come out from hiding when she so felt like it. Sherlock would often find himself rather suddenly being embraced by his flatmate about the waist, or his hand abruptly being tugged by strong and capable fingers. Like many a child, Claude was tactile as she was verbal, and she'd chatter the day away if only given the chance.

 

As much as it was fascinating just to listen to her, Sherlock sometimes found himself in situations that made him wish that he could politely ask her to shut up.

 

The Blind Banker case (As John had at one point suggested naming it) was quickly becoming infuriatingly complex to solve. Already Sherlock found himself running into some frankly alarming dead-ends. Sebastian Wilkes had only been so helpful in his information, and though the body of his coworker had been analysed (thankfully Claude had let John take charge for that bit) the detective hadn't been out of the flat much. The truth was, he was partially worried.

 

John hadn't changed into anyone but Claude now for almost a month. Judging from the pattern in which his flatmate had described the blackouts in the past, that fact was a strange and rare occurrence. Normally, the army doctor admitted to changing his personalities anywhere from once to twice a week, and never the same personality, judging from the situations that had arose when he came back to himself. Sherlock couldn't help but wonder at the silence of the other personalities, as none as of yet had woken to even give him a telling off for interacting with the youngest personality. Not that Sherlock had done anything particularly ghastly to Claude, rather he had come to somewhat befriend the child, showing her his many experiments (The eyeballs in the microwave had made her squeal in fascination) as well as engaging in many a round of  _Cluedo._

Sherlock had at least expected Daniel to appear once, or perhaps maybe Conrad. As it was, the detective had considered brushing up on boxing again, a sport in which he hadn't participated in since he was in his teens, but could prove useful if he found himself face-to-face with the embodiment of John's anger. The army doctor had made it clear to Sherlock early-on that if he showed signs of violence he was to get to safety as quickly as possible, but the detective privately abhorred even the thought of leaving John to froth alone.

 

No, he'd much rather be able to face the danger head-on, and not leave any unpredictable variables to play.

 

However, this meant that Sherlock was essentially grounded to the flat, since he could not say for certain whether not participating in an investigation would cause John's other personalities to come into play. In short, Sherlock was slowly becoming more than slightly stir-crazy from pacing the same four corners of the flat. Worse, he wasn't inclined to let John know of the pre-emptive measures he had taken.

 

His friend would doubtlessly think his fears unfounded. Or worse, be offended by his actions.

 

Sherlock didn't understand many human emotions, but he knew pride like an old coat. John held a surprising amount of it, hidden under a veil of humility and gentle care.

 

However, Sherlock could not hide his intentions forever.

 

John had noticed that neither of them had exactly left the flat since the hypnosis sessions had been happening. Though the detective was skilled at dodging direct questions, the army doctor had found sometimes indirect hints would tell him of Sherlock's mental state. He noticed how sometimes the detective would look at him, as if he were fragile. Made of glass. John noted how the man's hands would seem to twitch as he'd stare longingly at the door, only to freeze when those restless eyes landed on John's form curled in his favourite chair. John heard the soft sighs of discontent Sherlock would utter when he thought no one would hear them, and noticed how lately the man seemed smaller and yet a thousand times more combustible.

 

In short, Sherlock was brewing a perfect storm.

And when it came to a head, it came at the worst possible time.

Because John for the first time in months, woke from a nightmare.

 

****

_Fear had a taste to them. Hot, metallic. Panicked. Like copper placed achingly between their teeth. It made their skin crawl, and their small mouth shut in hysteria, only to open again to release panting breaths as their heart began to pound away in their chest._

 

_The fear came to them sometimes, late at night. The staff always acted sympathetic, the people in white coats._

 

_But their eyes were dead. Like glass marbles, hidden behind veils._

 

_They would wake shrieking, and sometimes they imagined manacles, chaining their ankles and wrists in place._

 

_Sometimes, their restraints were real._

_An animal, half-wild and only let out when dizzy and disoriented on drugs that they had no choice but to take. They took their personalities, twisted them. Broke them beyond repair. Tried to make them stronger, only to fracture them into even more pieces than they had been in before. They made them slowly lose their minds, frothing and snapping at one another within their own heads, taking on corpeal forms inside the imagination and becoming **real.**_

_**  
**But in return, they lost so much more than they could justify._

 

_An experiment, left to crack and shatter when it fell apart with no one left to notice._

 

_Fear._

_It tasted like sterile walls_

_It tasted like white lab coats._

_It tasted like medicine._

 

 

Sherlock was downstairs when he heard the scream.

 

He had been in the middle of filtering through the rather large and impressive collection of books that each new victim shared with the previous. There had to be a code.  _Had_ to be.

His brain whirring away, he almost didn't head the rather loud  _THUNK_ of a body rolling completely out of bed. Mrs. Hudson was out with her friends, there was not even the slightest creak of the pipes to distract the detective.

 

Then all hell broke loose, and Sherlock's head snapped up as he heard John let out the most unearthly sound of terror that made the hair on the back of his arms stand up, and his body leapt itself to its feet before he even realised what he was doing. He was halfway up the stairs when the cry cut off, and at the door panting and peering into the darkness when he found who he was looking for.

 

By then though, Sherlock had no time to react.

 

The hands about his throat were as immovable as they were strong, and they did not hesitate to wrap around his wind-pipe even as John's knee came sharply upwards to make an aim for the detective's groin. A second too late Sherlock blocked- only to have his feet swept out from under him so that he landed against the floorboards.  _Hard._

 

Stars exploded behind Sherlock's eyelids as his skull cracked against the hardwood, bright fireworks that quickly cleared as he hissed breath through his teeth and tried to loosen the grip tightening inexorably about his windpipe.

 

“ _John-”_

Sherlock wasn't surprised when the harsh and guttural Welsh accent broke through. What  _did_ surprise him was the words it said.

 

“ _No more tests! No more hurting us!”_

 

Struggling through the dizzying pain beginning to pulse in the detective's head, Sherlock blinked and slowly pieced together a sentence. His voice was beginning to wheeze, cracking at the edges and fraying like torn cloth.

 

“John.... have.... hurt... not... intention.....” Garbled words, trying to relay that if John had felt wounded during the hypnosis sessions, he should have said something. However, it soon became apparent that Conrad wasn't speaking of Sherlock's experiments.

 

“Too many pills! Too many tests!” He spat viciously, blue eyes blazing in loathing even as his fingers flexed spasmodically. His spine was a coiled spring of tension, arched like a cat's even as his legs straddled Sherlock's hips. A lion prepared to snap its victim's throat.

“They take and take and never give back and you'll be just like them! You'll hurt us!”

 

The voice might have continued its accusations, if Sherlock hadn't gotten so good at calling out Claude. Even in his hazy state of mind, he managed to whisper a strangled  _“Earl Grey”_. The result was instantaneous. Sherlock could  _feel_ the shudder that racked itself through John's body, and then his friend's hands were loosening their hold, a startled gasp leaving Claude's lips even as with John's body she moved off of Sherlock, scrambling back as if she had held her hand to a flame.

 

The detective sat up and coughed harshly, clawing at the burn of air that forced itself down his lungs and back into his system. A horrible ache lined his trachea, and it was painfully sharp as he blinked back the instinctive urge to go on the defensive. He looked up to see John's compact form trying to make itself as small as possible, Claude's gulping tears something he was now painfully used to even as the small child sniffled at him with a face full of anguish.

 

“I  _hurt_ you.”

 

Too late, Sherlock realised the flaw in his hasty plan to survive Conrad's wrath. Claude flinched physically when he got to his knees and tried to shuffle towards her, and when the detective reached out a tentative hand Sherlock could literally  _hear_ every personality within the complex of John's mind shout a resounding  _ **“NO.”**_

 

The detective rocked back on his heels as if he had been slapped, and in an instant, he knew John had come back to him. The tears stopped, but the man's face seemed a thousand times more pained as he whispered “Oh God, Sherlock. I'm sorry. I'm  _so_ sorry I-”

 

A sound of nausea came from the back of the man's throat, and he clapped a hand over his mouth and rose as if to check the bruises already beginning to form around the detective's neck. However in the next moment John drew away, spinning around to grab from under his bed a ragged rucksack. Sherlock was still dizzy, and it took him a moment to stop gasping and rise to his feet. Even as he did, the world tilted and swayed dangerously. Like a boat keeling over itself. However even stunned out of his mind he still had an idea of what it meant when his friend dove towards his wardrobe, hastily putting on his jacket even while folding as many pairs of pants and shirts into the bag as was humanly possible. Something cold twisted in the detective's gut as absently he noticed how efficient John was at packing.

 

Like he was always ready to leave on a hat-drop's notice.

Sherlock reached out to grip the man's sleep-shirt, elegant fingers feeling far less strong than they should, given the fact that he was still seeing spots of black in his vision. He worked to keep the adrenaline out of his voice, so often misconstrued as anger.

He was not angry at John.

At least not for  _this._

 

_But for daring to think he should leave...._

**_Unacceptable._ **

 

The detective would not abide by it.

 

“John, before you do anything, just listen to me. You're in a state of panic-”

 

But John appeared to be resistant towards hearing the man out, as when he lifted his head up again, Sherlock knew he was no longer talking to John. Daniel's Scottish lilt drifted from the man's mouth even as he finished folding the rest of the clothes, dark blue eyes filled with determination as he firmly pushed past Sherlock Holmes.

 

“We need to leave.”

 

Sherlock felt as if he had just swallowed a pitchfork. He struggled to keep his insides from twisting into knots, even as he reached out and latched onto John's arm in an attempt to keep the man from taking a step closer out the door. His voice did not crack, but it did rise slowly as the detective's face twisted into a determined scowl even as he growled out objection.

 

“Just  _hold on_. I told John I wouldn't let you take him away-”

 

“Without his permission, Holmes.” Daniel interrupted smoothly, standing up straighter as he looked the man squarely in the eye. His blue irises for a moment flicked to the pale column of Sherlock's throat, and in that expression the detective saw a sort of sad resignation. It occurred to him that this likely hadn't been the first time John had inadvertently hurt someone he cared about.

 

Yet it didn't matter. Sherlock tried not to rub at the chafed skin, instead standing his ground perilously in the frame of the door.

 

“I'm not letting you leave. Not until I can talk to John. Explain.”

 

_I need to Tell him that he's being ridiculous. That he didn't actually hurt me. That I'll be **fine.** That leaving will make it far worse, that I'll hurt more that way._

 

Stupid sentiment.

 

All of these words were written in the unspoken way in which he held his ground, and yet Daniel didn't seem to notice. Or perhaps not to care. His voice was deadly calm as he clutched the rucksack over his shoulder, but his body was a tightly-coiled spring of nerves.

“John is awake, somehow. He is the one  _urging_ us to leave.”

 

And as if to somehow prove John's lucidity, Daniel's expression melted away to reveal the tired army doctor. John's voice was a soft rasp as he gently pleaded with Sherlock.

 

“Please... Just let me go... I'll get a hotel for the night or something but... But I can't stay here knowing....” He took a deep, shuddering breath, and Sherlock was alarmed to see that there was a veil covering John's emotions. His walls had come up, and now he was facing Fort Watson, a castle made of steel.

“I can't stand knowing your life is at risk over the likes of me.”

 

“You were experiencing a nightmare.” Sherlock hissed, even as he felt his heart pound. John was somehow pushing him aside. His body was moving willingly. Why was it moving willingly? The detective wasn't sure. If he had to hazard a guess, he might say it was shock.

 

“It doesn't matter. The fact is that if I had squeezed any harder, it's likely I would have broken something permanent.” John's voice was too kind for someone resigning themselves to a night in a motel somewhere. His calm footsteps stood in sharp contrast to his friend's frenzied pace. John's eyes were shielded and cool as he walked calmly towards the door, pausing only when the detective rather futilely ordered

“John, I  _demand_ that you stop right there-”

 

But the army doctor was already halfway out the door.

 

And Sherlock didn't follow, because in the end, John always had the last word. And his words cut into the detective, leaving him feeling as though he were exposed and wounded.

 

“You said it was my choice. I choose to tap out. I'm.... I'm better off alone.”

 

The detective stood alone in the empty expanse of his flat, just lost in wondering.

Pondering to himself how John Watson ever got it into his head that alone was somehow a safer and more viable option than staying inside the walls of his own flat.

 

The detective turned as if in a daze, and saw the  _Cluedo  _board on the table. Without thought he lifted it, unsheated a knife from its home in The Skull, only to bury it hilt-deep into the rectangular cardboard. The game hung limply against the wall , displaying his anger with himself.

 

For the first time, Sherlock was completely alone in the flat. And part of him (thought it was small) wasn't just missing John.

A very small part was missing a little girl, who chattered nonstop and told him all about the importance of tea-time and how much John supposedly loved him.

 

But it was foolish.

Stupid to miss someone who didn't actually exist.

 

So Sherlock pretended he didn't.

 

****

She didn't  _want_ to leave Sherlock.

She didn't  _want_ to go back to living on the streets like some kind of gypsy, forced to scrounge. She didn't  _want_ to believe Conrad hurt the kind detective. She didn't  _want_ to believe any of them would hurt anyone.

 

John hadn't been able to stop the shift only a block after he'd left the flat, Claude's rampant emotions overtaking even Daniel's iron control, the weight of her sadness hanging heavily in their chests. Alone and frightened, the little girl had been uncertain in which path would take them back to  _ **221 B**_ , and refused to look to her siblings to help (as they were all advising they leave and never return). Stupid adults, always thinking they knew what was for the best.

 

Sherlock was hurt. The least they could have done was tried to fix his ouch. Claude knew that if  _she_ had been abandoned with an ouch, Sherlock would have looked for  _her._ After all he liked her, and  _loved_ John.

 

It was obvious as day in his face.

 

Claude fancied herself rather gifted at reading people.

 

So after a moment of panic in which she looked wildly about, the little girl decided to duck behind an alley, wanting to make herself small so she could cry in peace and then find a payphone. (John had left his mobile at the flat, again stupid).

 

Only the alley in which Claude wandered into apparently hadn't been as empty at she initially assumed.

 

She halted in place as she came to see the huddled figures hunched in a group in the alley. They were gathered together in a loose bunch, a half-circle of shivering individuals in ragged coats and trousers. Their hair held the matted, somewhat unclean look of a group of people who had been homeless for quite awhile without a respite. The leader appeared to be a man in a frayed orange jacket. His rasping voice carried to Claude's inquisitive ears.

 

“Just one more hit you lot, then we've got to skive outta here. Scotland Yard's got this place covered, thanks t' Shezza.”

 

A few growled their assent, holding syringes in their hands and pressing them to the crooks of their elbows and the backs of their knees. At the name 'Shezza' Claude couldn't help but perk up hopefully. Sherlock had once told John that he had been a rather infamous member of the homeless community.  _“Slight-hand Shezza”_ He had murmured proudly to the man, and frowned only when John had laughed at the nickname so hard that he had fallen out of his chair.

 

Timidly approaching, Claude held her breath in her chest and tentatively called out to the men and women.

 

“Um, do y-you know how to get to Baker St-”

 

Her sentence was cut off however as one of the men whirled around savagely, flinging and empty beer can hard in John's direction. Claude flinched as it missed her head by an inch, striking the bricks behind her with a sharp  _CLANG._

 

“Fuck off old man!” the rough man in the coat snapped, teeth bared menacingly in aggression. Behind him, Claude saw with wide eyes one of his friends pull out a penknife from her skirt. She backed up automatically, jumping when the textured line of brick dug into her spine. Inside, Conrad stirred uneasily. Claude resisted giving over the reigns, wary from what had happened last time her brother had gotten involved. John's voice was pleading.

 

“Please, I'm just looking for  _ **221 B**_ Baker Street. I got lost, and I don't have a phone-”

 

The woman holding the weapon snorted, her dyed-purple bangs falling into her eyes as she stalked forward. “You in league with that bastard detective? Jerk still owes me money-”

 

Claude's jaw tightened minutely, and she stood a little bit straighter even as her eyes flashed.

“S-Sherlock is a good man-  _Agh!_ ”

 

Another can, this time half-filled, cracked across their skull. Claude tasted blood on her tongue, and a red haze washed over her as Conrad within her screamed for control. Tears filled Claude's eyes, burning and hot even as she tried to stop them from coming. Cowering, she rubbed at her head and whined lowly, suddenly wishing desperately that Sherlock would find her.

 

“That hurt....” She sobbed softly, and she bit her lip as the group of homeless laughed raucously. The one in the orange jacket was harsh and jeering as he sauntered over to the fallen army doctor.

“What'sa matter? You mentally retarded or something? Crying like a brat.... Family finally decide to “lose you” in the city?”

 

Now no more than a footstep away the man spat, spittle hitting Claude's knee as she whimpered and sobbed. She was begging them, feeling her control slipping. Like a rabid dog uncollared, both Conrad and Daniel were beginning to become insistent. Pushing for control.

“Please...” She begged, crying out when the thug gripped the front of their jumper, dragging them upwards against the wall. The stench of his breath was sour and vile as he breathed in Claude's air.

For a moment, time stayed still. The man grinned up at John, eyes roving over the nice watch he wore (a gift from the detective after a particularly exciting chase) and at the bulge in his pocket. His wallet. All but purring, he called sharply for the girl with the knife to come forward. He took the weapon from her hands, pressing it against John's neck. Claude was trembling now, a thin stopper over the ocean of anger and violence bubbling just underneath the surface.

 

“Mm, lemme see now... I think we can come to an understanding.... a trade... information for a little extra...” And the man pricked the corner of John's neck, red blood trickling brightly down their skin. Claude could taste lava on her tongue. She screeched.

 

Then, She heard  _ **Him.**_

 

A sinuous voice, drawing itself from the shadows. A rumbling voice, soft and only heard at the rarest of times. Her brother spoke.

_**Let me. I will take care of it....** _

 

Claude whispered out loud. Her voice was trembling but firm.

“You musn't.... You musn't kill them...”

 

The man in the orange coat laughed at that in disbelief, eyebrows arched in surprise.

“You a mental case blondie? Escaped some asylum?”

 

 

_**We will not be caught. No one will ever find the body... I'll sssssssskin them....** _

 

“YOU MUSN'T KILL THEM!” The little girl shrieked. She knew it was no use, she was already slipping away. Yet an image of Sherlock filled her mind, as well as John, overwhelmed and lost in the white static of their head. They couldn't. The detective would know. John would go to jail. They would all go to jail.

 

_You mustn't kill.... them...._

 

Sleep washed over her like a wave. Still, she hung on helplessly.

 

The last thing she heard was a muttered sigh.

_**Oh, you never let me have any fun....** _

 

John's body went limp like a rag-doll. His shoulders slumped forward, and his chin went slack to his chest as his eyes closed. The orange-jacketed man tilted his head in confusion, eyes blinking owlishly even as he shook the unresponsive figure in his hands.

“Oy! Did you faint or somethin'?”

 

He almost dropped the man onto the ground, except that slowly, a curling smile twisted John's face. A low trembling racked the man's body, and it took the thug a moment to realise it for what it was:

 

Laughter.

 

An Irish drawl seeped from John's lips, rolling and full.

“Now, now. No need to get physical.”

 

Those blue eyes sparkled, and the man lifted his head and purred.

“After all, it's been  _so_ long since I've bothered to come out.”

 

In a flash, the orange-jacketed man was on the floor. None of the other homeless saw John move, but he was suddenly on top of the man, twisting his arm viciously. The homeless man let out a cry that was garbled and pained.

 

Above it, John laughed. The sound was chilling.

“I wonder if London missed me?”

 

****

Claude always cried when this happened.

She hated when her brother was like this.

She knew he couldn't help it, but she still hated it.

Later when he was done, she could feel his caress, lingering across her shoulders. Comforting and warm. Wordlessly, she turned and curled into the wide, warm embrace. Her tears soaked the edges of her sibling's suit. 

She pretended not to feel the bloodlust, still lingering in the air. 

_Never again._

She begged, but knew it would not come to be. Pale, long fingers combed through her hair. Her brother's voice was soft, a drawling song.

_**What is our job, Pet?** _

 

 

_To protect... To protect John._

 

She could feel him, John. Asleep, deeply asleep. Tucked away so that he couldn't see their hands that were stained red, couldn't feel it drying and turning tacky on their skin. Hiding from brother, as so many of the personalities did. The only ones who ever stayed were her and Daniel. No one else liked brother. 

 

No one else could stand him. 

 

_**They would have killed us, Pet.** _

 

Her brother soothed, voice neither warm nor cold. Merely stating fact. That sharp grin quirked, belying the crawling fact that he didn't see it as a crime. Didn't see it as a sacrifice. 

Claude had known from the moment of her birth that her brother enjoyed to watch things bleed. 

Enjoyed the thrill of it. 

Again, not his fault. 

It wasn't his fault the people in white coats couldn't leave them alone. In the end, they paid the price.

As did everyone. 

Anyone who dared to hurt them. 

 

Because  _J.W_ , John Watson, was only a mirror image. A reflection of an image within. All of them, twisting and coalescing in the murkiness of their own mind. Claude sobbed, voice tight and thin.

_John will never forgive us. This is all my fault. I got lost. It's my fault!_

She wailed. 

She could feel her brother's lips, pressed dotingly to her forehead. Her brother's voice held in it an edge of cold and cruel steel.

_**My dear Pet, who will say he will ever have to know? Do you really think I'd let you be held responsible? I mean everyone makes mistakes... But Sherlock... How do you think he'd feel about this? Do you think he'll ever talk to you again... he'll try to get rid of us... don't you think?** _

 

And she looked up into his face, into those dark eyes filled with endless night. Looked and looked, and her brother's hands tightened fractionally on her shoulders. For a moment, her brother's smile looked less like a grin, and more like a snarl.

**_What I'm saying is, Pet, John will never have to know... as long as you can keep a secret..._ **

 

A pale hand cupped her chin, her brother's eyes were heavy on her face. 

_**Can you keep a secret? So we all won't pay for your mistake?** _

 

And the little girl hesitated, guilt clenching in her chest. John wouldn't want her to lie. Her mummy wouldn't have wanted it, at least she didn't think she would have. But mummy had been dead since before she had been born, and John was asleep. No Daniel about, not even stupid Sneak. And her brother had a point...

If Sherlock knew, he'd surely turn them in. The thought made her sick. Conrad would never be able to handle jail. Her big sister would cry and cry and hurt them more... She'd never be allowed to play  _Cluedo  _again...

The thought made her wordlessly nod, blinking away tears even as her brother clapped his hands together gleefully and grinned. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his trousers, lazy grin stretching even more widely.

_**Then, I guess neither of us know anything... Right, Pet?** _

 

Whimpering, Claude hesitantly nodded again, wiping her cheeks with the palms of her hands. She felt as if they came away smeared with blood. 

Yes, no one, especially Sherlock, could ever, e _ver_ know. 

And that was okay. 

 

Because really, the death of the group of homeless people weren't the first death they had to cover up for, and none of them were inexperienced. 

With John slumbering away, Claude mentally whispered the plans to her brothers and sisters. As one, they all nodded. 

Right. 

Her eldest brother smiled, knowing that he was now in control. His dark eyes blazed like fire, and his voice was cheery and bright, compared to the gory mess he had made. His voice thundered in their head like the rolling of a tidal wave.

A command impossible to deny.

_**Right. First step. Disposing of our little...** **accident...** _

 

 


	18. A Handshake In Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers* PLOT. :P 
> 
> Sorry it's been a while, I was on a lovely vacation for a bit in Malta! :3 Really enjoyed it actually! Hope you like the chapter!

 

 

The file read _**PATIENT #27 IN EXPERIMENT- CODENAME HOUND (side project)**_.

Mycroft for his part thought the whole thing rather dramatic as he looked at it, sipping his tea in silent consideration. He leaned back in the deep wing-backed chair of his private room in the Diogenes' club, one hand drumming absently against the polished wood of his desk even as he took into consideration the scrap of a child staring out from the photograph paper-clipped to the front of the stack of pages.

 

John Watson, or rather his physical body (likely not his actual personality) glared up at the government official with tired, purple-smudged blue eyes, glancing from underneath a fringe of messy blonde hair. Though the image was grainy and messy, it was evident that the boy's pallor was waxen, and he held himself as if he were half-feral, eyes alight with savage instinct before the lens of the past. In the image it was stated he was about fifteen, although Mycroft would have estimated closer to thirteen if he hadn't known better.

 

There was no semblance of the good doctor in that face. Only driving, pure survival.

 

Sherlock _really_ would have benefited from reading the damn file.

 

But then again, if he had he might not have come to Mycroft with such a _wonderfully_ pleading expression. When his mobile rang, Mycroft knew that something had grossly gone to hell. Sherlock rarely called directly. Pressing the phone to his ear, the government official kept his tone deliberately differential.

 

“Evening, brother mine. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

 

“John's gone.”

The _again_ was left unspoken between them, and Mycroft sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Within the file, it was noted that John as well of all of his personalities tended to have a knack for hiding. Blending in. It would not do if the detective insisted on panicking every time the good doctor decided he did not wish to be found. However the elder Holmes was alerted to the fact that perhaps this was more than just a casual disappearance, as even as Sherlock rung him to berate his security measures there was a knock on the door. Mycroft focused on his brother's words, trusting Anthea to greet whoever was on the other side of the door.

 

The detective's voice was fast-paced and gruff, demanding answers without asking any questions, as per usual.

“I made a mistake. I said something and now he's gone and I _need_ you to _find_ him because I promised I would _fix_ this and-”

 

Mycroft was distracted from the sound of his brother's somewhat surprising panic attack by “Anthea's” (for her name changed nearly every other week) quick footsteps. The government official looked up to see his PA was lingering in the doorway, looking surprisingly and uncharacteristically... nervous. Her dark eyes were filled an unidentifiable emotion, and her lips were pursed in reluctance even as she interrupted the government official's phone call hesitantly.

 

“Sir.” She murmured, and Mycroft turned, caught by the tone in her voice as he tuned out Sherlock's rambling to take in the way the woman rung her hands, how her normally unruffled demeanour was tinged with nerves as of yet unseen. She bit her lip as the elder Holmes abruptly lowered his phone from his ear, voice terse as he asked “...What is it?”

 

In answer, a Scottish brogue spoke from the doorway to Mycroft's office. Daniel's voice was uncharacteristically hoarse as he stepped inside, limp unusually present as he stumbled into the room. Mycroft noticed with some surprise and a curling sort of knowing that the plain jumper the man wore was stained on the edges. The crimson shade stood out starkly, rust against pale fabric.

 

Daniel's voice was small. Very much unlike his usual self. His eyes were rimmed with a haunted expression, and he licked his lips nervously as he swayed in place, seemingly exhausted. Yet Mycroft knew instantly it was not exhaustion that caused the pinched, regretful expression in the man's features. Rather, it was the fact that when his hands lifted to run themselves through his own hair, they stained their own blonde locks dark, dark red.

“You told us to come if we needed you.”

 

The elder Holmes' gaze flicked over the man that had once been John Watson, eyes tracing over each stain, each bruise that lined the man's arms (his sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, revealing the scars that Mycroft already knew were there) each cut and purpling smudge of violence on his skin. The elder Holmes for a moment lost his voice as he analysed the raw carnage from merely the blood underneath the ex-army doctor's fingernails. His voice terse, and behind the man Anthea hovered with her phone in her hand. It was clear she was preparing to signal for emergency, should the need arise.

 

“I told you to come if Sherlock was doing something concerning, what you, John or any of his other personalities do when outside of my brother's watch is of no concern-”

 

“It is when one of our personalities has been ducking your observation now for years and you've all but given up on ever finding him.”

Daniel rasped, and he straightened slightly as he threw back his shoulders, attempting to seem in command when it was quite obvious he was all but dead on his feet.

 

“There is a name.... one that has no face attached to it... because the man is hidden by layer upon layer of different masks and only surfaces when he is needed. And yet somehow, he is able to infiltrate every place. Every area. Yet at the same time vanish without a trace. It's a name no one says.” Mycroft's pale eyes sharpened minutely, and his mouth thinned into an expression of realisation as his hand tightened on the handle of his umbrella. His voice was heavy and commanding.

“If you are truly expecting me to believe that _John Watson_ is the infamous-”

 

But the elder Holmes was cut off, as quite suddenly, Daniel's hands were reaching into the back of his jeans. Pulling John's sig from his trousers, Mycroft had just enough time to make the barest of flinches before he realised that the gun was not aimed at him. Rather, John's hand was steady as it pressed the brunt of his own weapon to his skull.

A slow, lazy grin crawled across the man's face, and the ex-army doctor's blue eyes swam with a madness unleashed even as he sang

 

“It's time to stop the gaaaaaame of ignorance, Ice Man. The jig is up, and we know your hand. So we've come to make our move. We know you've been watching us from the beginning, and you know we in turn have been making puzzles to distract your _darling_ baby brother. But like all games, we must have a tie-breaker. Sherlock's just about to wrap up my little _Blind Banker_ scheme, and it wouldn't do for him to be bored. And so, I come to you for a favour it seems. After all, you owe me for looking after dear Sherlock for so long now. Couldn't let his own _stupidity_ end The Game before it even got rolling.”

 

All pretence of plausible disbelief melted from Mycroft's face. What replaced it instead was cold calculation, and his eyes narrowed even as his voice took on a deliberately careless tone.

“Jim Moriarty. John's most volatile personality, and quite possibly the most clever. A consulting criminal, first appeared in John's early childhood but due to laboratory experiments only became fully formed in his late teens. A ghost. A pariah and a whisper amongst even the highest government officials. Because no one has ever seen his face. Yes, I've known it was you, shortly after meeting you, actually. Word of advice, the flat is always bugged despite Sherlock's efforts to clean it. He's never thorough enough, so I've been witness to some of your more... nocturnal activities.”

 

Jim's laugh was positively gleeful, and his eyes shone like a cat's as he murmured

“Did you like that then? When I wound up shooting my own informant in order to gain your brother's trust? John didn't even know, the little duck's _so_ protective of things he can't have. He doesn't even realise sometimes, just how _obsessively_ his instincts run to keep Sherlock Holmes safe.”

 

Mycroft's voice was unamused. His tone was faintly disapproving of the possessive way in which Moriarty caressed the detective's name, and his drawl was smooth and deliberately detached in order to appear in control. A game, a puzzle, and Jim leapt upon it eagerly and lapped at it as if it were sweetest milk.

 

“And you think I'd care enough for my brother's well-being to consider you indispensable? I've had my men watching John Watson for years, prepared to act if his less.... _savoury_ counterparts gained control for too long. Why would your death inconvenience me? When you're not the only 'experiment' to emerge from Baskerville as a partial success?”

 

The subtle threat lingered in his words, and yet Moriarty did not seem particularly worried or phased. Instead, John's shoulders rolled easily as the gun flexed against his own temple, as if he were merely holding a toy spray pistol, relaxed in his hands. His voice purred with delight as his head tilted in reptilian amusement, all traces of the gentle John Watson vanishing in that moment to make way for something cold and unfeeling.

 

“You need me in one piece because there will soon be many innocent civilians calling your hotline in the future, begging to be saved from the bombs that they will have strapped to their bodies. I have my second in command on standby, so whether or not I leave this office alive today is really just a bonus on my part. Either way, Sherlock will have his puzzle. The question is, will anyone be there to help him solve it, if I blow my head in?”

 

The crazy grin seemed to eat the tail-end of the man's words, causing them to tilt up and whirl before lowering back down to its regular Irish brogue. Mycroft's jaw clenched, but other than that he appeared impassive. His eyes held a snake-like glint to them as he murmured threateningly.

“I could torture the answer to the clues out of you. Lock you up, perhaps even send you back to the labs from which you came from. How do you think the sanity of your other personalities may fare, once they were faced with their old nightmares once again?”

 

“Ah, but you'd have to stop me from shooting myself first, Mr. Holmes. Do you think you could cross this room before I pulled the trigger? One of my personalities at least _does_ have military training, not to mention another has suicidal tendencies. Really, we're great at parties.” Jim's melodious voice objected conversationally, and lovingly he clicked the safety off of his weapon before continuing.

“Besides, if John Watson were to just _disappear_ , how quickly do you think our detective would come snooping along? Asking questions he cannot know the answers to? Do you think he'd not take it as a personal offence if he walked into Baskerville only to find his beloved _doctor_ screaming for him from behind a cell, tortured and beaten beyond repair?”

 

The elder Holmes opened his mouth, and both of the men knew it was to object to the detective's feelings towards John. However whatever Mycroft was going to say was cut off by the insistent chirp of a text message, the contents of which as his hands reluctantly dug for his mobile effectively rendering whatever the older Holmes might say in defence as null and void.

 

_**I am begging you. Please find him. Mycroft. Please. -SH** _

 

As if knowing what the text said without reading it, Moriarty's voice took on a triumphant crow.

“And finally! The reason you need me alive is for the reason that everyone's noticed but has been too afraid to mention.”

 

And Moriarty leaned onto the balls of his feet, eyes glinting as he hissed.

“John Watson makes Sherlock Holmes _better,_ and you've been searching for a cure to your _baby brother's_ attitude problems since you were six years old. And now that you've found one...”

 

The gun was pressed firmly once again to John's temple, and the madman smiled gleefully.

“Something tells me you'd be rather unwilling to part from it.”

 

“You'd take your own life to prove a point?” Mycroft objected, only to be overrun by Moriarty's snarl of savage vindiction.

 

“I'd take my life if only to make things _interesting!_ _ **EVERYTHING IS SO DULL IN THIS WORLD.**_ Everything. Even you! Even Sherlock Holmes! What is the point of staying alive if there is nothing that can hold your interest?! If there is nothing to break and burn!” John's voice shouted across Mycroft's office, and it echoed deafeningly in the man's ears so that he barely heard the whispered lament of the madman. It was as soft as a downy feather.

 

“What is the point of existing if your only purpose has already been fulfilled?”

 

A heavy silence. It stretched out like a bell between the two men, drawing itself out sluggishly. Like a drum skein pulled taught and left to snap or coil in on itself. Unravelling. Two stone statues. Mycroft Holmes found himself sweating slightly as Moriarty began to hum under his breath, rocking back and forth on his feet. The tune was the theme to _Jeopardy._ The government official didn't need to be told what would come at the end if he did not acquiesce.

 

His brother would never forgive him if John's brains came to paint the hardwood of his floor.

 

With a small moue of distaste, Mycroft sighed. His eyes closed in resignation, and his lips twisted into a sneer of disdain.

 

“What do you ask of me?”

 

And for a moment, the man thought that perhaps John had fought through. That the consulting criminal had vanished, leaving behind an innocent smile and a soft gaze. However, the Irish brogue still held as John spoke, and his words were anything, anything at all but soft.

 

“We want to know about Sherlock's life. His childhood.” And then in an even softer voice that despite its kind tone sent a shiver of ice into the office like an overhanging deep freeze. He whispered the offer to his pact. 

“And we need you to hide a body.”

 


	19. Perhaps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers* updates... I remember updates... they happened before school decided to eat my soul....

 

 

It was a few hours later when Sherlock received the phone call that finally allowed him to stop in his frantic searching for John all over the city of London. He was just beginning to come to terms with the fact that John might have very well left the city when Mycroft's number rang him, his brother's imperious voice floating to his ear as he spoke with smugness dripping in his tone.

 

“You'll be pleased to be informed, brother mine that John Watson was detained just as he was leaving for the country, around West Ruislip. He's currently making himself at home in my office... playing with books and stacking them actually... I believe this personality calls herself Claude?”

 

The detective blew a breath he hadn't known he had been holding out through his teeth in a hiss, coat flapping as he shoved one hand in his pocket for warmth. His blue eyes closed with relief as for a moment he swayed on the spot, cheeks colouring slightly in the draining of adrenaline from his system. Sherlock struggled to remain upright as he tightly responded.

“Just don't fatten them up on cake before I get there, brother. How soon can you get a car to come and get me?”

 

As he spoke, the sleek shine of a car glinted in the corner of Sherlock's vision, and the man spun on the pavement to see the vehicle already pulling up to the kerb. Mycroft's voice was professional, but it held in it his signature smirk as he ended the call with a taunting good-bye.

 

“Now, Sherlock. When have I _ever_ made you wait for a chance to come see me?”

 

****

Claude was kicking her heels against the polished wood of Mycroft's desk when Sherlock arrived, the tips of John's toes striking harsh and bright in the silence of the man's office. The noise was a repeated drum rhythm, likely driving Mycroft slowly insane, although he was smart enough to hide his annoyance from where he sat.

Upon the detective's entrance, Claude leapt easily to her feet, tearing after Sherlock with a high-pitched _whoop_ that only cut off when a curious hesitation came over John's form. Sherlock watched as the man's posture melted when he came to face him from childlike elation to a sort of fearful hesitance. The detective watched as John's blue eyes filled with something blank and unsure, badly hidden by a grin that looked more reflexive than real.

 

Sherlock felt something cold twitch in his stomach as he looked at the clothes John wore. They fit him, but they were not the clothes he had left in. In fact, they looked to be brand new. Not a scrap of dirt or dust was on them, and the detective experienced the rather jarring experience of being unable to deduce where his flatmate had been. Combined with how Claude stopped a foot away from him, hands placed carefully behind her back as if expecting punishment, the detective felt something unpleasant and wrathful rear its head in his chest.

 

“Hello Sh'lck.” The girl mumbled almost shyly under her breath, John's dark blue eyes peering up at him hesitantly, lips pressed in a tight line. Sherlock knew the growl that wanted to erupt from his mouth would not help, but he found himself snarling anyway, head whipping up to glare at Mycroft even as his eyes flashed coldly.

 

“What the hell happened?” Claude flinched as though she had been struck, curling in on herself so that John's shoulders appeared hunched and small. Mycroft raised an unimpressed eyebrow at his brother's rage, a note of disapproval in his voice even as he blandly replied.

 

“Now, now, Sherlock. No need to assume the worst immediately. Our little friend appeared to have misjudged the amount of rainfall that's happened the past couple of weeks- we picked up Claude at the park, knee-high in mud.” And indeed, once Sherlock looked closer he could see tell-tale traces of what looked to be rough play. A splash of mud behind one ear, grime underneath John's fingernails. Claude looked vaguely shamed as she looked up at the detective, blue eyes wide as she mumbled

“They wanted to cheer me up, I wanted to go home but Daniel said I couldn't, so we went to the park to play.” More quietly then the little girl added after a moment's hesitation “And John didn't want to be in charge any more.” Then, Claude looked up with an earnest expression that was filled with desperation.

“But we learned our lesson! No more running away. We can be good! I can be good and you can talk to Daniel and convince him to let all of us come home and John will know it's not his fault...”

 

With that Sherlock's expression melted from rage into something regretful and soft, carefully masked by a charade of stiff awkwardness as he stepped forward to cup John's jaw in one hand, looking for signs of a concussion or bruising as he peered into Claude's wide irises. Finding that John's pupils were the same size, he straightened to clap his flatmate upon the shoulder in a mark that one might call possessive as he glared at his brother. Claude's voice was so small, so trsuting. Afraid but trying not to show it.

 

“Mr Holmes, are you going to punish us?” And John's voice quivered, and the detective cursed himself over the fact that rage coursed over him, hot and cold at the same time over what abuses had led a little girl to believe that punishment was the consequence for showing fear. His friend's form was tense, a line of coiled muscle and trembling bones, and if John had been smaller, younger, he would have been shaking like a leaf. As it was with Claude in control, John did not seem to be wholly calm.

 

“I'm sure my brother was more than capable of lecturing you about running away. He was always so _cold_ towards children. As a result, I have reason to believe that his presence alone is enough of a repercussion.”

 

Mycroft snorted to himself, raising an eyebrow in disbelief even as his hands twirled the handle of his umbrella between his fingers. His voice was dry an unamused.

“This coming from the man who once caused his fellow classmates to scream in horror by bringing in a dissected frog to class.”

 

The detective noted how John's shoulder's slumped in silent relief, and Claude without hesitation leaned forward so that Sherlock found his flatmate pressed against his chest. John's breath was warm and humid with unshed tears, and gripping the collar of Sherlock's coat tightly, his voice was thick and croaky with the unthinking honesty of a child.

 

“W-we want to go home. Please d-don't be mad. P-please.”

 

But before the detective could respond, Mycroft's voice interrupted with smooth precision. His tone was neutral but not exactly unkind. Merely detached.

“Do you really think that is wise? Perhaps it would be unwise to have John return so soon to your flat, given his insistence on leaving it in the first place.”

 

Immediately Sherlock's hackles rose, and his blue eyes flashed as he bared his teeth and curled about John possessively, gaze thunderous and unyielding.

“What was _unwise_ was walking outside of our flat for a stupid reason, what was _unwise_ was wandering about in London, getting lost because almost _none_ of John's personalities know the way the city _works. They let the child personality lead them for Christ's sakes! “_

 

And Sherlock might have continued, if Claude hadn't curled further in on herself at that comment, sobs becoming less muffled and bordering closer to hysterical. Childish, the detective felt the army doctor's voice rumble angrily against him.

“M'not a _child. M' not..._ ” Sherlock's anger soared as his older brother smirked at him as if to say _Oh, well done. Try sticking the other foot up your arse, why don't you?_

 

“Regardless of the poorly executed attempt, brother mine. The fact is that John Watson has no desire to go home.” Mycroft's tone gentled slightly as he saw his younger brother suppress a small flinch, the ice-man's eyes unreadable as he looked at the rounded, manicured edges of his nails. His voice held in it a quiet threat.

“And if this... condition the good doctor has proves to be too much to handle for you... if it truly risks your life... then I will be forced to bring my hand into it.” Sherlock glared as his brother stated dispassionately with a flick of his fingers against the handle of his brolly.

“The next time he runs, don't come looking for my help.”

 

In response, Claude only cried harder. John's breath turned hiccuping and stressed as he murmured “Neverneverneverneveragainnotmyfault.” Under his breath. Then the little girl, tired and spent, fell back into incomprehensible tears.

 

 

Reluctantly, Sherlock looked to his brother, silently searching for reason as to Claude's distress. It didn't feel right, and he could sense something foul hidden in layers behind his brother's shuttered expression. Yet the detective had no evidence to point out his claim. Sherlock liked to pretend he never guessed, but the truth was there was always an element of gut instinct to deductions.

 

Always.

 

And right now, he could feel the tingling along the base of his skull that only came when danger was very, very near. If he pulled John closer to him instinctively, then neither of the Holmeses chose to mention it. Sherlock's voice was acerbic but marginally less spiteful than usual as he murmured stiffly

“Rest assured, I will not make the same mistake twice.”

 

And he held John closer, teeth clicking together in thought of how to proceed forward. Sherlock had no love for his brother at the moment, but he owed the man a favour. And loath as he was to admit it, the detective knew that without Mycroft, there might have been a very real chance that John would not have been found.

 

Mycroft's expression was unreadable, but it seemed to hold in it the faintest hint of doubt as he blandly replied “One can only hope.”

As he spoke, he looked at the hunched form of John Watson, more child than man at the moment. His pale, crystalline irises gave nothing away.

 

Not even when as Sherlock turned and guided John away, Claude looked back at the man with wide, tear-filled eyes, and mouthed an apologetic _I'm sorry_ behind the detective's back. John's gun still resided hidden in the waistband of his jeans, tucked away by the thick safety of an over-worn woolly jumper.

 

****

 

There was no chance to grill Claude on the events that conspired during their separation. Sherlock was prepared to do so almost as soon as he marched through the doors of _**221 B**_ , coat whirling behind him as he paced and hastily made room for John in his favourite chair (as it was filled with files and cases that had been thrown about in Sherlock's haste to find clues as to John's earlier whereabouts). He felt himself coiled, wound up on cigarettes and the leftovers of adrenaline and (as appalling as it is to consider) worry, and as a result he paced through his temper, attempting to reign it in lest it lash out and shatter the frail, hunched figure obediently trailing behind him. Sherlock was furious. Furious with John. Furious with himself. Furious at Mycroft because he took too long and he didn't think that he could _do_ this and Sherlock _never_ liked it when people doubted him and-

Claude's eyes widened when she took in how hastily the detective spun, picking up the skull from its innocuous place by the mantel and flinging it without hesitation towards the floor. The hollow sound of its thud reverberated through the floorboards and caused the little girl to shudder. Mr Holmes was scary when he was mad.

She hoped he wouldn't hit them. Then again, they probably deserved it. Broken so many rules. They had _broken_ so _manymanymanymany rules..._

 

And the thought caused her legs to feel numb, and Claude sank into John's chair, wordlessly trying to call the doctor back to consciousness in the depths of their shared mind. However John did not seem to want to be disturbed, and instead of finding the sleeping man's countenance within her, Claude felt only sick. Twisted, black unease.

 

That, and a bone-weary exhaustion that caused her eyelids to droop and her shoulder's to slump in defeat. She didn't want to lie, and she was tired. So, so sleepy. Always so tired...

 

Sherlock finally felt as if he had his thoughts in order about twenty minutes into his controlled and careful rage, could speak without flying into a tangent. Later, he would marvel that it didn't take him longer. However he was surprised to turn around, prepared to launch into an interrogation unlike the world had likely ever seen, only to find John quite asleep, tucked into a ball in the crook of his chair.

 

The army doctor looked small, coiled into a protective sphere with his head somehow contorting to rest upon the arm of the furniture, eyes closed but flicking with the beginnings of sleep smoothing out the lines of his forehead. Sherlock felt a small but crippling wave of relief fill him at just the sight of it, the utter innocence of the posture that John held. Defensive but not completely shut off. His flatemate's hair appeared more grey under the flat's lights, but instead of ashen like it had seemed in Mycroft's office, it now looked like plated silver. Sherlock felt most of his rage stifle itself, replaced instead with a weary kind of resignation.

 

The fact was, above all the detective couldn't abide his own failure, more than anyone else's. He had failed John today, and the evidence was in the way Claude had finally collapsed, in a chair so that none could sneak up on them, tucked as small and as unobtrusively as possible into the cushion. John's hands were curled against his chest tightly, strong and sure but being used for protection instead of offence. The sight alone caused the detective's chest to squeeze unpleasantly, and he frowned to himself as he straightened, jaw working in thought as he came to the sudden and forceful conclusion.

That no matter what happened, no matter what came to be, this could not happen again.

He had come very close tonight to losing John forever, and the thought alone was enough to send pinpricks thrumming underneath his skin and his breath to loose itself harshly from clenched teeth.

 

John's greatest enemy at the moment was himself.

But how was the detective meant to protect him from those created for the sole purpose of _serving_ John's most basic needs?

 

Getting to know the personalities had a first seemed like a good idea, but now it seemed that deliberate prodding had been foolish at best and damaging at worst. The detective mused on this even as he once again picked up his pacing, hands coming to fold in front of his elongated features in fierce consideration.

 

Perhaps trying to pick apart the personalities, _separate_ them from one another, was where he had gone wrong.

Perhaps... Perhaps they were far more interconnected than Sherlock had ever suspected.

 

In front of him John stirred slightly, sighing through his parted lips. The man twisted in his sleep, curling more deeply inwards on himself. His breath was even, deep but not abnormally so. The detective's eyes closed in thought.

 

Perhaps... Perhaps he should have focused less on the personalities and their issues, and more on John Watson _himself._

 


	20. Sneak's Story~ Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is so late, and I am so sorry ^.^ 
> 
> HOWEVER. it is here :3
> 
> so you guys have probably noticed I'm doing the Alter's stories in chunks, and a bit out of order. this is completely intentional. (As in, claude's story will be continued upon as time goes on) 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! :3
> 
> warnings for... well a lot of things... this fic is not happy XD

 

 

 

When John woke, it was not the John Sherlock had privately hoped for.

 

He knew it by the way the man's feet touched the floor, cat-like and nearly soundless. He could feel it as his flatmate's figure stepped into the corner of his vision, the slow curling smirk on John's face not his own. The detective busied himself for a moment longer with the experiment he was working on, the pale shadow of dawn highlighting the curve of his spine in the dark blue of his dressing gown. It set him like a watercolour painting, and the darkness of his curls were like whorls of black ink even as he turned and assessed his friend up and down with one critical glance. He wasted no time identifying the personality that sat itself calmly in the kitchen, crossing their legs and humming to themselves the last trace notes of Beethoven's symphony number nine.

 

“Forgive me if you were not the one I would have liked to speak to this morning.”

 

Sneak made a faint tutting sound, blue eyes sparkling mischievously as he rocked back into the chair. John's silver-blonde hair glinted in the morning sunlight, and in a sharp contrast to Sherlock made him look as though he was made of spun gold. His smile was sharp and friendly, but laced with something just on the other side of mocking.

 

“Now, now Sherly dearest. Is that any way to treat a friend? I don't think I've done anything to warrant such a sullen frown.” Sneak mock-pouted at him, giggling when Sherlock's response was to scowl harder. The detective kept a vein of silence even as out of the corner of his eye he watched the man whom he couldn't quite bring himself to call friend stretch languidly, looking about with a kind of lazy interest that spoke of hidden meaning. John's voice was pleasant, but his words were filled with implication.

 

“If I'm awake you know it's about time I head out again. Find someone. I mean, I don't have much to do here. This flat's a little boring, y'know.”

 

He said the words conversationally, but Sherlock reacted as if he had spat vitriol at him. The detective straightened, ice creeping into his tone as he firmly set down the microscope he had been attempting to put away. His light blue eyes were cast over with storm.

 

“You will not be leaving the flat. Not until I speak to John and the earlier transgressions that were made are resolved. I won't be having you disappear off the grid again.”

 

“Ooh, so you're leashing us now. Daniel won't much like that.” Sneak chuckled, standing to stalk over to the curly-haired man. Sherlock resisted the urge to move away, unused to John so easily invading his personal space. Usually he was the one to cross boundaries, to initiate skin-to-skin contact. However Sneak seemed not to care in the slightest about how the detective had turned to stone, leaning forward to purr “Then again, I don't particularly mind. Not if I get a proper _reward_ for it.” It occurred to the detective suddenly, like a lightning storm shuddering over his spine. That he hated the stranger that peered at him from the reflection microscope's edges and pots sitting in the sink of the kitchen, glimpsed from the corner of his eye. He hated the slope of John's grin, so close to _his_ John's and yet not, hated the secrets, the not-knowing.

 

It made his hands ball slowly into fists, and his voice rumbled lowly in his chest, more a snarled accusation than a question. The detective's gaze was dangerous as he looked up at the man hovering over his shoulder, his mouth twisted in a curvature of aggression as he looked at Sneak and growled “Your games though obvious are not particularly scintillating. If you will do little more than _flirt_ with me than I suggest you go and find something in the flat to _entertain_ yourself, as you will not be leaving it until _John. Comes. Back._ This is no longer a game. This is no longer an _experiment._ I want you. All of you. _Gone._ ”

 

And oh, how satisfying those words were on his tongue. Like poison, dripping and cold and uncaring and so much like the machine he enjoyed and pretended to be so much. The words sat heavily on his tongue, like words once uttered to him long ago. And suddenly, Sherlock could no longer stand still.

 

Driving his point home, the curly-haired detective coldly rose from his chair and turned, refusing to deign Sneak even the barest of glances. If he had, he might have seen the amused smirk for a second slip from the shallow personalities' features, soften into something perhaps a touch more subdued. As it was, Sherlock was crossing the flat to his room, slamming the door decisively before Sneak leaned on the kitchen table, fingers drumming idly against the polished wood surface. His voice was contemplative even as one hand reached out, pencilling the answer to the complicated chemical equation Sherlock had set out for himself on yellow note-pad beside his microscope slides.

 

“We've upset him.”

 

Daniel's Scottish brogue was soft, coming from the same lips with a quiet resignation.

“We upset everyone.”

 

Claude, gentle and naïve.

“Can we fix it?”

 

And Blue, so hollow and certain that the rest of the personalities fell silent, unable to answer.

Unable to respond.

 

“We can't. Only John can do that.”

 

But John wasn't there, and in the emptiness of where his presence should be, his Alter's shifted uneasily. For usually they were the ones called to action, the ones to solve the problems that the world threw at them.

 

But what if the one they were designed to protect, was the only one that could stop the hurtling missile that Sherlock's absence would create from their life? Sneak's lips turned down in determination. His blue eyes blazed as his grip on the table tightened. His voice was filled with certainty.

 

“There is a solution.”

He murmured, and Daniel answered him sharply.

 

“I am not prepared to make that sacrifice.”

 

And then from the depths, Blue finally rose. She opened her eyes and looked at the flat, looked at all the sharp objects in it, all the things that could damage. She then looked at the softness of the detective's face in their collective memory. She felt a tenuous resolve fill her.

 

“But I am.”

 

And Sneak, after a moment grinning widely.

“And I am, too.”

 

And as they moved to Sherlock's bedroom, his voice comforted the sister that was already shaking inside them, second-guessing causing her to hide away in the darkness.

“Don't worry, I'll go first, promising of course that you'll follow.”

 

To that, the only reply was her steadying presence, even as collectively the Alters reached out, knocking on Sherlock Holmes' bedroom door.

 

****

“We hurt you.”

 

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what compelled him to allow Sneak into his room, to find him sitting cross-legged in front of him upon his bed, looking far more serious and intense than he ever had bothered to appear before. The detective thought that it was perhaps for a moment, that serious look had reminded him of John, and that the ache in his chest upon seeing it had pushed him to make room for the army doctor's diminutive stature. As it was, he found himself rather wary of Sneak, once he was stripped of his usual playful mockery. The man before him now was surprisingly alike to John in ways Sherlock had not expected. There was a set to his mouth as he looked the detective up and down critically, something tired in the way he stated plainly

 

“On behalf of the other Alters and myself, we ask for your forgiveness. It was uncalled for, and it will not happen again. We wish to make it so that not only can you pick up on the signals for if you are in danger again, but to tell you more about... certain aspects of our existence.”

 

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, he wasn't so foolish as to think this information came freely. Sneak's chin was tilted just enough to come across as a business benefactor, and the restless movement of his hands ticked on one denim-clad knee.

“In exchange for what?”

 

“You don't make us leave.” The request came hushed, and the detective remembered his earlier words, said as much in truth as they had been in anger. Before he could respond, Sneak rushed onwards, throwing out excuses, reasons in a silver-tongued streak that was just on the other side of begging.

 

“You wouldn't do that to Claude, she's a child. A baby, really. And John... he does need us, still. If you just erase us, there is a good chance our memories will transfer to him, and there are things he will not... _cannot_ remember. That no sane man can have access to.”

 

“Yet you do.” Sherlock pointed out, and the man before him gave him such a worn, pained smile that the detective could see it, locked away. The edge of madness, swirling just under the depths of skin and bone and illusion. Sneak was not sane, no.

Not by even half.

 

The blonde continued as if such an exchange in silences never happened at all. Once he gathered rhythm, it appeared he would not stop. Not if he could help it.

“You'll go in our order. We cannot tell our stories without one another, we're all connected. Starting with Claude was an interesting attempt, and to be applauded, but she's close to the end, truthfully. If you want answers, you start with me.”

 

Blue eyes, flicking over to Sherlock's features, and suddenly there was a spark of fire, of mocking. His smile was John's all sunshine and radiance. But it was not the smile Sherlock was hoping for.

“But you know, I don't put out without someone buying me a drink first. So treat this as pay-as-you-go.”

 

The detective arched a brow. “And what is the payment for such a story?”

 

A firm, solid hand pressing itself against Sherlock's chest. Not groping, just resting gently on the pounding of his heart. Unafraid. Unmoving.

“You tell John. If you can't trust us, you tell him your own hurts. How you came to be like you are. You may not have split personalities, Holmes, but you have masks. And John wants to see under them, but you need to let him know that you're okay with it, otherwise he won't pry.”

 

Sherlock's voice was curt. “And if I don't?”

 

Sneak's smile was gentle, for someone who's hands were slowly moving upwards to the pale column of the detective's throat.

“We promised ourselves that we'd never let anyone take advantage of us ever again, Siggy. If you make this deal, you keep it, luv. Nothing personal, just... business.”

 

And Sherlock found himself nodding, accepting even as those hands moved away, and Sneak straightened, voice quiet. His words took on that of a storyteller's, and he stared at his hands even as he began.

 

“It all started for me on John's fifteenth birthday...”

 

 

****

“ _Watson! Oi, John! You comin' to Lizzie Erol's party?”_

 

_John looked up from the textbook he was attempting to study from, inwardly groaning as he caught sight of Nathan Fowley's hulking figure waving at him jovially from across the Rugby field. He sighed, feigning the smile on his face as he lifted his face upwards, approximating an expression of happiness to see the jock move towards him._

 

_It must have passed, because Nathan clapped his shoulder and squeezed it tightly in what was probably meant to be a friendly gesture, instead nearly crippling him with its weight. Although he was only a year older than John, Fowley had hit puberty relatively early on in life. As a result, he was as wide as a tree, seemingly endless in both intimidation and size, stature blocking out the sun that had been illuminating the bleachers underneath John's bare lower legs, slowly burning them alive._

 

_He floundered for an excuse, finding one in the very real issue of transportation. The Care Home wouldn't have a way of getting him to the party, and though he could likely walk to Lizzie's, he wasn't about to let Nathan know as much._

“ _Can't. Sorry, mate. There's curfew at the Home, and I really do have to study.”_

 

_Maths was his worst subject._

 

_Nathan rolled his eyes, not buying the excuse for a second. His green irises narrowed even as he flipped John off, shoving his hands in his pockets in agitation._

“ _What you **need** Watson is to get **laid.** You're such a stick all the time, and all the girls still fawn over you, baggy jumpers an' everything.”_

 

_John at this point pulled his sleeves more firmly over his wrists. His small frown apparently went unnoticed by his companion as Nathan built up steam, badgering the tow-headed teen mercilessly._

“ _Seriously, mate. Amber Harley's been eyeing you all month. And Emily Bates always squeaks and gets all red when you even say hello. If you just turned on the charm a little, you'd have no trouble losing your V-card.”_

 

_He said this so matter-of-factly, so confidently, that for a moment John hesitated in his reading. He found himself peering at Nate cautiously, biting the edge of his lower lip in consideration even as he thought of Amber, who admittedly had caught his eye a few times. Something about her dark hair, the curve of her rare but radiant smile. The thought of kissing her was far from an unpleasant thought in the teen's mind. But sex?_

 

_John found the question tapered off, fading into a blank space. Grey area. Somehow, he knew._

_A part of him was aware of the mechanics of it. The biological feeling of release, as much from his own dreams as from textbooks. Yet..._

_There was something dangling at the end of that question, a great nothingness. John felt neither repulsed nor particularly attracted to the idea of sex, and he had no idea why. It wasn't that he wasn't sexual in nature (plenty of free time alone had definitely proven that to be incorrect) it was more..._

 

_He just never thought about it._

_Not with someone else._

_Not..._

_Not for pleasure._

 

_And that made him frown, biting the inside of his cheek even as he turned back to his textbook._

_Not pleasurable._

 

_But... could it be?_

 

_****_

 

_He stared at himself in the mirror for a long time. He had two blank spots today, the likes of which he managed to wake up colouring a brightly-smiling rainbow in a children's colouring book and the other with shaking hands encircling a disabled pencil-sharpener. John carefully hid the marks, not wanting one of the Care Home officials like Jenna or Thomas to see. The crisp blue shirt he wore brought out the hue of his eyes, his jeans nearly black. He couldn't afford exceptionally nice clothes, but John had always been good about taking care of what he owned._

 

_He had to be. After all what if someone came looking to adopt him, take him in?_

_Though he didn't think it would happen again after the last time, the boy could vainly hope._

 

_Now he found himself staring at his own reflection, dark eyes looking out from a bright shock of blonde hair. He whispered to the glass the words Nathan said, repeating them to himself even while nervously adjusting the cuffs of his shirt._

 

“ _Be charming... charming... smart and charming... you can do it. It cannot be that hard, surely.”_

 

_And then he tried for a smile, but his ears stuck out too much, and John found himself feeling awkward and out of place. He decided instead to keep a neutral expression, cringing internally at the night that would come. He questioned for a moment why he did this, why he put himself through it._

_Then he glanced towards the bottle of pills sitting at his sink, and found his lips turning into a determined moue._

_He would be normal._

_He **would** get better at this. _

 

_He would..._

 

_So John took the tablet obediently, turning away from the mirror even as the chalky taste of the pill slid down his throat. He tried to pretend like he couldn't imagine his own reflection mocking him, laughing at his complete ineptitude even as he crept out of his room, back-straight, chin tilted defiantly upwards._

 


	21. Sneak's Story~ Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took forever ^.^ but summer is coming! which means more frequent updating! yaaay :D just this week and the next then I'm finished... 
> 
> Enjoy! heed the tags as always :3

 

 

 

_There was a deep, heart-tissue squeezing kind of drum-beat thudding throughout the house, trembling in the very walls of Amber Harley's home, vibrating just under John's skin. It seemed to fill him, turn the people whom he'd once called friends and classmates into strange creatures, all illuminated by cheap disco-type lights and the fog of excitement and a good time. He stood for a moment and merely absorbed it all, eyes wide as he took in the obvious wealth that Lizzie's family seem to have come from, evident in the leather chairs sitting in the living room as much as the crystal bowl holding punch._

 

_Coming from the room which he shared with two other foster children, to John it was like he had stepped through a looking glass into a strange, warped world beyond. Some place neither here nor there. Standing awkwardly near the front door, the teen shifted somewhat nervously, uncertain of where he was supposed to go or who he was supposed to talk to. He craned his neck, searching in the vain hope he might spot Nathan out from the crowd. As luck would have it, his friend would spot him first._

 

_Fowley's heavy hand landed solidly on John's shoulder, Nathan's voice already jovial and slightly louder than usual with drunkenness as he he breathed in the blonde teen's ear._

 

“ _Johnny, you made it! Just in time!” John smiled and tried to appear like he wasn't wincing with the strength of his friend's grip, voice comparatively smaller yet calmer as he replied_

 

“ _Well, seemed rude not to...” His eyes flicked over the faces of the crowd, noticing a few turned to him and waved or smiled in greeting. He smiled back, feeling the sensation spread across his lips, even as it shrank back as Nathan carried on, oblivious to the smaller boy's discomfort._

 

“ _Well, come on then. Jared's already got a game of spin the bottle with the older kids. Amber's in it, and I know how to spin the bottle to rig it.” He winked conspiratorially at John once, dark eyes amused as the teen flushed darkly in response. God, but he felt awkward, being here with little more in mind than getting laid for the first time. Was it this strange for everyone? Could the people looking at him tell what his intentions were? If so, John was willing to bet there were betting pools somewhere._

 

_There were kids of all years filtering through the halls that Nathan lead him down, and they navigated through rows of plastic cups and rubbish, wrappers from packets of crisps and biscuits and once the sharp crunch underfoot of broken shot glasses. Students, some looking to be almost in college caught John's eye, and the young teen couldn't help but wonder if every youth within a thousand mile radius had turned out for what was buzzing to be the event of the year. Amber was well-known for her parties, almost as much as her intelligence, and John could see why-_

 

_Everyone seemed to be having fun. **Everyone.**_

 

_There were fifteen year olds playing videogames in the living room, college kids making out behind them, heavy and petting on the couch. Everyone in between drinking and eating and laughing over the thundering drum of the music. For a moment John was caught in it, the bubbling exuberance, the sweat of life and childlike abandon. It made his heart beat faster, and for one strange moment he felt not quite like himself, a small, quiet smile coming to his features, stretching into cat-like amusement._

 

_He was snapped out of it as he was lead upstairs by Nathan's meaty hand, his footsteps thundering on the steps loudly, guiding towards the master bedroom. There, John found a ring of people, sitting or lying on their stomachs respectively. They all looked up at Nathan's entry, wearing varying expressions of surprise, recognition or suspicion at the sight of John. Among them, Amber's dark curls bobbed in greeting. Emerald green eyes were warm and beautiful, and they looked John over invitingly._

 

“ _Hiya, John.” She sang, sitting up to toss her hair over one smooth shoulder. John thought for sure Nathan could feel the heat of his flush. The fifteen year old wouldn't deny it- getting the attentions of his older classmate, no matter how fleeting or perverse, was definitely arousing. He could ignore the fact that Amber had at the beginning of the year teased him for being in the advanced classes, if only he could keep that gaze locked on him._

 

_Nathan greeted the others with a careless wave, introducing John with a quirky grin and a pat on the back. “This is the one I told you lot about, boy genius I tell you.” The other students were mostly older, one even bearing the beginnings of stubble on his chin, ginger and curled. His grey eyes were critical and cold as he took a sip of the beer at his side._

 

“ _Don't you think one baby's enough, Amber? Nathan was only s'posed to be here 'cause he bought the drinks. The runt though hasn't paid his dues, can't trust him to hold his own.”_

 

_John felt the beginnings of embarrassment leak through him even as he sat at Nathan's side in the ring, his gaze casting itself towards his shoes in submission. Truthfully he felt slightly uncomfortable in a room full of strangers, but he wasn't about to say as much. Instead he clenched his jaw and forced himself to look the older teen in the eye, voice calm as he replied_

“ _If you're implying I won't play fair, you're wrong.”_

 

“ _Not implying anything, kiddo. Just that you might find the drinking part of this game a bit heavy. Vodka and pineapple, some lime. Tastes light but I don't think any of us want to deal with your vomiting and hangover in the morning.”_

 

_Amber interrupted then, her voice placating._

“ _Harvey, let John be.” She turned to look at him again, and her voice was gentle. Manipulative. “If he says he can handle it, he can.”_

 

_Her tone held confidence, and Nathan chimed in brilliantly. “Yeah, Johnny's not a lightweight. He and I have done shit like this before.”_

 

_If 'shit like this' counted as drinking strawberry schnapps Nathan had once nicked from his mother's pantry, John supposed his friend wasn't lying. His eyes closed, and when they opened, they were filled with determination. Confidence._

_He could do this._

 

“ _What are the rules?” He asked, feeling braver than he actually was. Harvey's mouth was turned into part amusement and part annoyance, but he chose not to push further. A girl with bright blonde hair and dark brown eyes leaned forward, and the instructions were given._

 

_Twenty minutes later, the game began. Amber Chose Nathan to spin the bottle._

 

_****_

“We were so young, then. We didn't want to be seen as weak, so we played. Spin the bottle with a twist. If you're not landed on when the bottle spins, you drink.” Sitting quietly on Sherlock's bed, Sneak's eyes appeared lost and faraway. They were filled with a kind of wistful nostalgia, memories of a time that was at once his childhood as his beginning. He could remember, how the bottle's edges had flashed when they finally landed on him. How a moment later they had landed on Amber, how her eyes had glowed like twin jade's in the dim light.

 

In front of him, Sherlock's eyes had narrowed into pensive slits, and the drumming of his fingers on his knees was loud in the comparative quiet. His voice was low as he rattled off deductions, the ink of his curls glistening, so much like Amber's had all those years ago. Dark and sweet.

 

“Already so inebriated, she got dared to give you fellatio.”

 

“You make sex sound _so unattractive_ , do you know that?” Sneak complained, but a smile hovered on his lips. Playful. Something on Sherlock's face must have amused him, because he chuckled darkly. “Oh, Sig, are you jealous? Over something as trivial as a quickie in some teenager's bedroom? We didn't even last very long, and John was all safe and tucked away before anything happened. Locked up in his cozy little head-space, up here.” John's solid fingers tapped his temple lightly, and Sherlock scowled. His voice was questioning. Accusatory.

 

“When did you appear? During the game? When John was picked? When was the exact moment that John became so uncomfortable that he decided to _create_ someone else to deal with things? Was this... Amber unkind? _Rough?_ ” And there was something dangerous in the detective's eyes now, feral. It looked as if he might like to tear apart the girl from John's past if she had so much dared to wrong him. Sneak's answer however was not what he was expecting. Simple.

 

“She smelled like Roses.”

 

Sherlock looked at his flatmate then, expression lost. So confused. Wanting to defend and protect John, and yet unable to see the danger. The things that haunted the insides of their heads. It was a beautiful expression, and suddenly unable to help himself, Sneak leaned forward. The chaste, almost sweet brush of John's lips against his own for a moment caused the detective's breath to halt, his eyes wide. For a second he forgot, for a moment it was simply....

 

Simply John. Wonderful, gentle, _knowing_ John. Kissing him, a firm pressure of lips that made a warm seal against his own.

 

Except Sneak's hands were suddenly at the buttons of his shirt, and like sunlight shattering an illusion, the detective pushed him gently away. Sherlock's eyes were pained, and he was panting softly, cheeks flushed scarlet. His gaze was unwavering, but it held in it only sorrow. Struggling to explain, scattered as his Mind-Palace struggled to come back online. To phrase things properly.

“No. Not you.” was all he managed. Somehow, it was enough. Sneak looked at him curiously, blue eyes dark with something unnamed. His response was careful.

 

“You do know... it might never happen, right? John... he doesn't... _cannot._..”

 

Words unsaid.

_Reciprocate._

_Have sex._

_**Remember.** _

 

… _Show you his heart..._

 

“I know.” Sherlock whispered, and his smile was small. Fragile. “But the man I love... _isn't_ this. Isn't you. And you... you don't...you don't feel love for me, do you?”

 

Sneak sat in front of him, eyes wandering to his lap. The question startled the personality, as much because it was _Sherlock_ asking it as its implications. Love? What was _love?_ Love had no place in a shadow's heart, in a reflection. Yet the dull ache in his chest, it affected all of them, humming in their ribcage. Yet it resonated from John.

 

Love...

 

Had he ever felt it before, not fogged by desire's lens? Unfiltered and raw, the kind spoken of in the music he played, the pain of a broken heart? Had he ever looked at someone and seen not the pleasure or the love _they_ could bestow, but what he could give?

 

Of course not.

Because he wasn't meant to _give._ He didn't know _how._

 

He took things. Took it all. And when it dried up like a well, became an arid hole in the ground without a hint of refreshment or hope of relief, he left.

 

And he knew this. Had accepted it long ago.

 

At least... he thought he had.

 

Sneak's lack of an answer was reply enough. Sherlock's voice was surprisingly gentle.

“Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side. And you...” hands, reaching to cup Sneak's chin so that he looked up, quite suddenly a little boy, a teenager trapped in an older man's body.

“You were created to survive.”

 

With no answer to give, the personality kept silent. Yet Sherlock thought he caught a flicker of something within Sneak's expression, something vaguely approving. His words were calm.

“No one's ever said no before. Not when I've been serious.”

 

A long stretch of silence, in which John's pale brows furrowed in thought. Finally, Sneak confessed with a somewhat bashful look “I'm afraid I don't know what to do.”

 

Sherlock, lightening the mood.

“Even with a casanova such as yourself, there's a first time for everything.”

 

And John's smile, for a moment not curling, not sarcastic, blossomed over Sneak's lips like sunlight parting through clouds. Then, because John looked small and somewhat lonely, and that wouldn't do, Sherlock found himself wrapping his arms about the stranger that was now a tentative comrade, tucking him into the crook of his shoulder. Sneak stiffened, a myriad of expressions crossing his face. His voice was questioning.

 

“What... what do you want from me?”

 

Sherlock, for once finding the right words, brusquely replied.

“Just because sentiment is weakness, doesn't mean I don't succumb to it now and again. This is for John, not you.”

 

Then more gently

“You owe me nothing.”

 

Sneak found the embrace a warm thing, slightly troubling but not terrifying. His eyes fluttered closed of his own volition, and softly he sighed. The steady, even breaths of the ex army doctor soothed Sherlock's own reservations, and he held onto Sneak, pretending he was clinging to John. He listened to his flatmate's heartbeat, and counted the measures, thumping solidly against his chest.

Finally, Sneak sighed.

 

“I... we are not good people, Sig. We... John's not worth it. Neither am I.”

 

Sherlock's only reply was to snort, tightening his embrace. His voice was arrogant, but his grip was possessive.

“John is mine for utterly selfish reasons. And you are my comrade because you protect John.” This was rather hard to believe, Sneak was tempted to point out, considering the detective would not let go.

 

Then, more firmly, Sherlock added.

“And to any other personalities listening, this stands. You protect John, I consider you a companion. You hurt him...” And Sherlock's voice turned cold “Then we shall be having words.”

 

In the back of his mind, two personalities shifted. One in unease and despair, the other in morbid interest.

 

Sneak closed his eyes, and pretended to fall asleep. If only so he could be held a moment longer, if only so he could feel the fogged-up glass-like version of love still permeating through the marrow of his bones. Like a gecko, curling up on a rock so that he might feel the distant flavour of a long-set sun. 

 


	22. Big Sister, Big Brother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been so long since I updated this... I am so sorry...
> 
> Major trigger warnings in the chapters ahead! this is not a happy fic but if you're reading you likely already know as much! ^.^'' tread carefully, yeah?

 

Sneak stayed for a while longer even after his nap, but he revealed no more of the past to Sherlock. The detective, more than a bit wary of pushing, did not ask for more. Instead, he watched as the Not-John persona explored the confines of his room, eyeing Sherlock's personal belongings like they were lost treasures. Much like an overly curious child, Sneak didn't seem to think twice about personal space or manners, stepping lithely about the room, hands reaching out for the case notes scattered on Sherlock's side table and reaching up to trace the framed edge of the periodic table hanging across the room. His dark blue eyes glittered with interest, and to Sherlock's surprise he found himself being _deduced,_ all in John's steady voice and manner.

 

“You grew up in a relatively well-off household, but that's obvious, given the way you button your suit. In fact your clothes in general speak of upper class, and you haven't tried to hide it, so you identify and are comfortable in fashionable clothes.”

 

Sneak turned, pale brows drawn in consideration. After a moment he stated decisively “Eton. At the very least that's where your brother wound up. I'm not sure with you, given the fact that you have certain traits that most people of upper class wouldn't have: Such as your status as an addict.”

 

“The rich can be addicts too, certainly. They have the means and the money.”

 

Sneak's smile was languid as he laughed, shaking his head in faint disagreement as he replied “No, you wound up on the _streets,_ a family of upper standing would have never have allowed it, not if they cared about their name.” Blue eyes narrowed in thought then, alighting only when John's hands came together, clasping in answer.

 

“You're gay.”

 

“Astute observation.” The detective said dryly, even though the corner of his mouth ticked with something automatic and restless. Sherlock watched as Sneak seemed to hone in on the action like a cat, head tilting to the side in predatory instinct as he let puzzle pieces come together from previous conversation.

 

“Your father didn't approve.”

 

If Sherlock's gaze had been narrowed any more his eyes would have been predatory slits. “Yes, well. He might have handled one son, but two was more than a bit excessive. Couldn't hide _both_ of us under the rug at family gatherings.”

 

Sneak ran his tongue over the front of his teeth, his gaze faraway in almost child-like consideration. His voice was low as he mused to himself “Never quite got that, honestly. Aren't parents supposed to accept their kids? Even if they don't like aspects of them?”

 

“Your question shows a mark of naivete beyond your years.” Sherlock replied, his smirk rather bitter and cruel. Sneak didn't seem particularly bothered by the barb, shrugging slightly as if he expected such an answer. His voice was light and airy, cheerful despite the dark tones of their conversation.

 

“I am when it comes down to it, the optimist out of John's personalities. Besides Claude, that is. Mind of a child, mind of a teenager, the older the personality it seems the more embittered towards the human race we become. Come now, Sig, this isn't much of a chat if I'm the only one spilling my secrets.” Sneak's blue eyes flicked to Sherlock's face, and the detective sat up as John came forward, sitting once more on the edge of the bed. His friend's lips were drawn back in that smile that was at once familiar as it was unnatural. Sneak's gaze was probing. “You did something... Something your father didn't approve of. Something so bad that Daddy finally said _No._ Disowned you. Kicked you out. Left your poor brother to deal with a drug-addict, a ticking time-bomb of rage. Oh, yes, we can see that _rage,_ Sherlock Holmes. We know it, _fear_ it. The anger that all people have, locked away in their heart of hearts...” The detective's eyes narrowed as Sneak's voice dropped to a wistful kind of whisper.

“Sherlock Holmes... Your brother is made of ice, and yet when we look at you... we see only _flame._ ”

 

Sherlock's voice was as remote as a still pool of water, yet it held in it a kind of intensity. The depth of his timbre sent shudders through the other personalities, and Sneak's smile only widened in delight at the sensation, rippling across his thoughts like a wave.

“His name was Victor Trevor, and my father caught us shagging in the school shed. During a family Christmas gathering. Needless to say... it was... not on.”

 

John's laugh, full and rich passed Sneak's lips, throwing his blonde head back in utter delight. He clapped Sherlock's shoulder lightly, eyes glinting with the mischief of a schoolboy as he breathed “Would have loved to have seen his face... tell me, how did your older brother react? Did his face go all pink like it does sometimes?”

 

It was such a carefree reaction, that Sherlock found himself somewhat caught off-guard. Sneak seemed utterly enthralled in learning about the detective's past, of figuring out things _about him,_ and part of Sherlock wondered if John really found him to be such an enigma. He knew he liked his privacy, but until that moment it didn't occur to the man just how closed off he must seem most of the time. Sneak was asking not to gain anything in particular, but because he was genuinely _interested._ Such a thing seemed almost unheard of, unusual. Yet, Sherlock knew, this was _John. Part_ of him.

 

John wanted to know Sherlock. Wanted to _hear_ about him. And if John could listen, know Sherlock's mind and stories...

Perhaps, he might come back.

 

Part of the detective hoped it wasn't such a long shot. The rest of him gathered himself, changing the subject to happier topics. His voice put on a false cheeriness.

 

“Deduce the best Christmas present I ever got.” Sneak looked at him in surprise, blue eyes wide. After a moment's pause, Sherlock repeated himself. “Go on then, I want to see how good you are.” The detective spread his arms wide, and his blue-green eyes glittered. His voice was soft, inviting. “Read me, Sneak.”

 

_Know me, John Watson._

 

Sherlock had thought perhaps that his friend's smile had never before looked so impossibly bright.

 

****

 

Sneak stayed for a few more hours, but by the time dinner was coming, Sherlock noted a marked shift in the personality before him. Increasingly distracted and silent, the detective watched as John's hands began to wring themselves, fingers twitching and his sleeves being tugged on restlessly, as if the man felt his skin to be too tight. Though Sneak didn't say it out loud, the detective could guess who would be making a guest appearance later on that night. Patiently he waited, wondering when the turn-over would happen. He sat in his chair, watching the man before him, both at once stranger and friend, pace until the first starts came overhead outside.

 

It was almost eight thirty before Blue finally took over.

 

Sherlock didn't react, but he watched as John's form slowly stopped its restless movements, instead sinking to the hardwood floor. It was as if his shoulders were suddenly too heavy for his small frame, as if John Watson were a child, hiding in the dark. The quiet, pitched exhalations that came from the man's lungs were at once distressed and yet desperately trying to rein in control. Still the detective didn't speak, unwilling to spook the silhouette, trembling on the ground on the other side of the room. Judging from the tension in John's shoulders, Blue was quite aware that she was not alone. Quiet, almost hiccuping noises left her mouth, and Sherlock watched as John's back forcibly straightened, quietly observing the way the man was automatically taking deep, deliberate breaths. Used to panicking, used to dealing with the panic alone.

 

Finally Blue turned, and the sad, quiet aura of her countenance hit Sherlock, striking him not unlike a ton of bricks. It was palpable, the grief in her very posture. Gone was John, replaced with a shade, a shadow. A fragile thing held together by stitched scars and sugar-glass.

 

John's voice was soft. Unexpectedly high. “Sherlock Holmes.” Blue greeted him, features unreadable save for the sadness that seemed to cling to her like a cloak. The detective didn't speak for fear of spooking her, nodding his head in greeting. He wordlessly pointed to the chair before him, keeping his voice low and non-confrontational as he spoke.

 

“I've heard much about you, Blue. Yet I'd like to actually get to know you, if you'll give me the chance.”

 

Blue didn't speak, blue eyes cast to the floor. She shifted nervously, an animal caught in a trap to which their was to escape. Like a wild animal, her gaze didn't settle for too long on anything exactly. She spoke quickly, quietly. Her voice was articulate but not particularly commanding. World's different from John's subtle tone of leadership.

“We are no one. No one at all.”

 

Repeated phrase, Sherlock noted. He leaned forward, hands folded underneath his chin. His voice was gentle, pushing but only just.

“Who told you that? Can you say?”

Her voice was absent. Lost in memories from far away. She seemed to tuck herself inwards, make herself even smaller. John was a ball, a hunched figure. Blue spoke as if she was adrift in an endless, yawning sea.

“No. No one knows.”

 

“Why?”

 

“People die when they know.”

 

Then, almost soundless Sherlock heard Blue utter words that sent something unpleasant and dreading coursing through him. “Big brother makes sure of it.”

 

****

 

“ _Johnny! Johnny! Help me climb the tree!” Harriet was running in front of him, long blonde pigtails flying about her face. The edges of her skirt were already stained green, grass and dirt tinging the lace as she reached for the lowest branch of the solid oak on her tip-toes. John trailed behind, looking at her apprehensively. The tree was the tallest in the park, standing like a lone sentry at the edge of the grassy patch that connected to the pavement. Its roots were as thick as his arm, the lowest branch nearly five feet up._

 

_His voice was high with concern._

“ _Harry, you might get hurt-”_

 

_That was their job, after all._

 

_Protect their younger sister. John was a good big brother. He protected his sibling at all costs. He even went so far as to cushion her fall when she tumbled from the tree, using his body as a buffer between her body and the hard grassy ground._

_John protected Harry._

 

_****_

 

“ _John! Come get in the car! We're dropping you and Harriet at your Uncle's and Aunt's place!”_

 

_John bit his lip, head ducking downwards towards his lap. He did not like going to Uncle Henry's. Did not like the shouting. The fighting. They were noisy people, but John never told his mum that. She would tell him that to say so would be rude. Yet Harry was going... John couldn't let her go alone._

 

_His chin squared. He was the big brother. He had to protect Harry._

 

_He came down the stairs, a velveteen-stuffed hedgehog braced against his chest like a shield._

 

_It wasn't enough to protect him, but he managed to spare Harry._

 

_John was a good big brother._

_He protected his sister._

 

_****_

“ _You're a good boy, Johnny. Real good. You make me so happy, you know that?”_

 

_Blue didn't tell him that John was not there, not around. That he had vanished, tucked himself away, finally no longer able to protect his sister, at least consciously. Instead she blinked up at the ceiling of the bedroom, feeling the coldness of her bare thighs, the stickiness of something drying on her skin. Blood, something else. She wasn't sure. There wasn't always blood, but she was nearly always sticky, it seemed. The man who John knew but was afraid of brushed a hand over her face, tilting her chin upwards as if to inspect her features. His voice, deep and possessive haunted her thoughts. “We don't tell anyone, promise? Do that and we keep little Harriet out of our games, right?”_

 

_John protected his sister, so Blue nodded. Yet inside, she wished that there was someone to protect **her,** protect John. _

 

 

_Someone who could stop those hands from touching, stop the bruises from forming along her skin, bright indigo and painful._

_It was that wish that brought forth a voice, deep within. Something dark and twisted. It whispered in the furthest corner of her mind._

 

_**I can protect you. All of you.** _

 

_And foolishly, Blue believed._

 

_John was a good big brother._

_But Blue, she had never been a good big sister. Never._

_For she had awakened in the end the monster that spelled out hell for all the personalities later on._

 

**_Jim Moriarty. Hiii!_ **


	23. Protector

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this poor story has been going to neglect for some time and for that I apologize ^.^ that being said I hope you enjoy, as the next chapter we'll be looking more into the cases and moriarty :)
> 
> TW: discussion and implication of sexual abuse. mind your step, yeah?

 

 

 

Blue was like an adult, that much, Sherlock was certain of. He’d guess her to be early twenties at most, though no older than twenty five. Yet at the same time, mental sickness had turned many of her actions childlike, and she crouched on the floor and glared reproachfully up at the detective, John’s eyes filled with fear and quiet mourning. Sherlock found that when his friend looked at him with that expression, a curious tearing feeling squeezed inside of his chest. He did not enjoy the sensation.

“We made a deal with him.” Blue rasped, one hand tugging absently on the nape of John’s sandy blonde hair. She rocked quietly with the motion of it, knees hugged to her chest, curled up tightly as if expecting impact. “He promised he’d protect us, and he did. He did.”

Sherlock, having come to a half-crouch a few feet away from his flatmate, felt a small chill thrum through his veins. In the dark, Blue’s eyes were hyper-bright, chips of vivid ice that were as wild and untamed as the ocean itself. They tracked the detective’s movements like laser-points, John’s hyper-vigilance making the man appear like cat poised to run from a particularly vicious dog.

“Who did you make a deal with, Blue? Who was it that you agreed to work with to protect John?”

The girl bit her lip, gaze sliding towards his own once before once more flicking to her lap. John’s form quivered, wracking sobs shuddering through his form in silence.

Sherlock, wanting to press but unwilling to lose Blue in a fit of bad memories, called out sharply.

“Blue. You are here, not… not in the past. You are here.”

“Past… I am the past, Mister Holmes.” She corrected, and with the correction came a small nod, like she was reassuring herself. Sherlock felt something twist in him then, a peculiar kind of shuddering. His voice was soft, but driven to discover what it was that John was hiding hidden in layer upon layer of soft wool and fastidious smiles. Though a part of him was aware that the army doctor would rather he not know.

“You are the memories that John has of the sexual abuse, then.”

**  
  
**

Wordlessly, she nodded, pressing her teeth down harder into the cushion of John’s bottom lip. The rocking was continual, smooth and soothing, as was the hair-pulling. Both signs of defensiveness and acute stress. Yet she didn’t flinch as Sherlock came closer, instead seeming to lean into the warmth, the comfort that another body could bring. The detective barely heard her breathy sigh of small contentment.

“You’re safe. Safer. Safest compared to him.”

To whom Blue was referring to, Sherlock wasn’t sure, whether it be the other personality, the mysterious Big Brother, or someone perhaps more sinister. Still, John was reluctant towards opening up in both posture and voice, and the silence dragged on for longer until Sherlock felt compelled to change tactics. Instead, he decided to try and make his goal to calm Blue’s fears, appeal to her more through the instinct she seemed already seemed capable of to trust him. Closing the final gap, the detective was both surprised and slightly pleased as John’s eyes fluttered closed and he leaned against the taller man’s chest, mouth quirking up into a small, rather fragile smile even though tears still glistened on his cheeks. John’s body was warm, almost hot to the touch, as if he were running a slight fever. Sherlock didn’t even notice until it was too late, and one of his long, spidery fingers were plucking through Blue’s hair.

Gentle, _gentle_. Like soothing a violent and manic beast.

**  
  
**

“Past. Past, I am the past.” She continued to mumble slowly, the words slightly slurred with exhaustion. John’s hands plucked uselessly at the fabric of his own jeans, fingers running along seams and bare feet. Sherlock hummed noncommittally, rubbing small circles into the base of John’s neck. Slowly, soothingly. Blue all but melted under the touch, childlike and vocal about the innocent touch like it was a gift sent from God. Her murmurings were filled with blissful delight, and the fact that John could be so unused to such simple tactile sensations made the detective want to clench his fists, attack anyone who might have made his companion feel as if he were unworthy.

“We belong in the past, but we like the present.”

“You were made when John was a child, then. Quite young.” At Blue’s nod, Sherlock felt something click in his brain. His murmur was impossibly soft, filled with rage as he fully took in just how small John must have been when the abuse began.

“You were the first.”

Trembling, then a shaky, breathy affirmation.

“I was alone.” Blue whispered, knees clutched tightly to her chest. She sounded small, so lost. “I was _alone_ , protecting John alone. And then others came, one by one and filled our head. And I had to protect them too, because they’re part of John.”

“But no one protects you.” Sherlock murmured gently, and this time, Blue sobbed in silence. John’s hand was pressed to his mouth, as if terrified that should he let a sound out, he’d be punished. The detective gently pried that hand away from Blue’s lips, the sight secretly too monstrous to entirely be comfortable.

“John likes the present too, Blue. You did well to get him this far.” Sherlock soothed, trying his best to comfort the rather sad personality even as his mind whirled. If Blue was the first then, she had a protector’s complex, a strong core that believed it needed to shield others. As a result, one personality had taken the majority of the abuse, thus leaving the others to operate and function at varying levels. Fascinating, horrifying and ridiculously clever. John’s brain was trying to buffer the majority of the pain and psychological trauma to a personality rarely used. Yet absent from Blue was one vital emotion, and Sherlock wondered where it was lying hidden. Rage. He had met Conrad, but Conrad appeared only during John’s war service, no.

Somewhere, rage was hiding, and the detective wondered just what it would take to bring it out.

His attempts to comfort, though well intentioned,seemed to do the opposite, tension suddenly curling into John’s spine. The detective stopped his administrations, sensing the change in atmosphere as Blue began rocking again, not drawing away but curling into herself, as if afraid to be struck.

“We broke the deal.” She murmured, eyes nervous as they flicked about “We broke it but it wasn’t our fault. Wasn’t, promise!” Huge, pleading eyes turned to Sherlock, willing for him to understand, to see. The man’s eyebrows lowered in concentration, and he was careful to keep his voice low, non confrontational even as he admitted

“I don’t know what deal you’re speaking of, Blue. If I did, I could maybe help you, though… What deal did you break?”

Yet John’s head was already shaking, fresh tears quivering in Blue’s form, and choked sobs building up in her chest. Sherlock could sense the moment of relaxation, of relative sanity, slipping away through his fingers. What it was replaced with was a creature that was half-wild and very afraid, hunching against the night and Baker Street itself like every shadow was a demon to face, every lurking nook containing some hidden sin.

Her voice was grim like ash.

“He’ll hurt us. Hurt John. He can’t, please, he can’t. It’s my job to protect, _he can’t!_ ”

With those words, Sherlock felt a crawling sensation in the back of his throat. The first pricklings of fear. He struggled to keep his voice cool, detached, but the burning intensity of his eyes cause Blue to shrink a little, look away. One hand came to John’s scalp again, viciously tugging at the blonde strands.

“Who, Blue? _Who?_ If someone is out there, looking to hurt John…”

“Not out there.” Blue whimpered, shaking her head in denial. Her eyes were panicked, and one hand came to clutch at the front of John’s jumper, at his chest. Her voice was high, the teetering edge of a tenor.

_“Inside us.”_

And then Sherlock watched as a shuddering convulsion seemed to thrum through John Watson’s form, and his friend suddenly slumped forward, eyes rolled into the back of his head.

****

John remained unconscious for the rest of the night. Twice, Sherlock debated calling the hospital. Yet his friend’s vitals appeared to be fine, and for the most part, it was as if John Watson had merely fallen asleep. Still, Sherlock carried the stocky soldier to his room, depositing the man upon the bed and after a moment of consideration, tucking him in. The detective refused to sleep for the rest of the night, lest his friend’s condition change. John talked in his sleep, and in the dark, Sherlock could only make out a few shattered words. What he heard made little sense.

_“Harry…”_

_“Car…”_

and then

_“God, let me live.”_

It was nearly eight in the morning when the army doctor’s eyelids fluttered open, and Sherlock immediately found himself heaving a silent sigh of open relief as the man blinked in confusion up at the ceiling.

He knew that expression anywhere.

“John.”

“Mm.”

Was his friend’s rather articulate greeting, the man wincing as he sat up slowly. Every pain that the doctor felt Sherlock categorized instinctively, eyes flicking to the soreness of the man’s back (being curled up on the floor would do that to a person) to the aching of his scalp (hair-pulling, should monitor that better, next time). John’s blue eyes were nearly colourless by the light of dawn spilling into Sherlock’s bedroom, and his expression went from confused to vaguely horrified as he came to realize just where he was lying.

“Sherlock… What am I doing in _your_ bed?”

Instead of replying the detective rose from the chair he had seated himself in for most of the evening. His face was a mask of stone, unreadable, but the army doctor could detect in it the circles from more than a few sleepless nights. John, suddenly feeling as though everything was rushing back into his memory, felt his stomach plummet to the ground.

Something had gone wrong.

Something… had gone very wrong indeed, for his flatmate to be looking at him as if he had only months to live.

**  
  
  
**


	24. Fade To Black

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah yes, the pivotal chapter. Spent a long time on this one. This is where things begin both coming together and falling apart, somewhat. Also, next chapter look forward to a visit from Conrad and Daniel ^_^ 
> 
> Usual trigger warnings for this chapter, mind yer step :)

 

 

 

“I don’t _understand._ What did this… Blue mean by ‘someone will hurt me’ if she tells you their name?”

Upon his awakening, John had managed to pull pieces of Sherlock’s account of things from after his blackout. Mostly through stubbornness and the very real threat to John’s life if Sherlock did not tell him. From what the detective had explained reluctantly, the ex-army doctor had found his hands trembling and his head pounding as if it were caught in a sieve. Never had John thought that any of his Alters would be so complex, or so infinitely sad. The reason for such sadness sent a tightness through John’s chest, an automatic denial hovering on his lips in response to the idea that at sometime in his past he had been abused. It didn’t click, because John couldn’t remember, and the sensation was as if he had a limb amputated from him in his sleep. Abuse and him, it didn’t match, even if a part of him had known for a long time now that to have his condition, it was very much likely to have experienced it. The yawning black hole of his blocked memories frightened John, and though he often liked to think he handled his mental illness well, he’d never admit just how thankful he was in that moment that he couldn’t recall anything from that time.

 

Though his friend had appeared strangely recalcitrant for the his usual manner, Sherlock had eventually loosely detailed all that had occurred, tracing lightly over John’s abuse with an expression that was carefully blank- indicating that inside it made him seethe. The ex-army doctor to his credit listened intently all the way through, wordlessly watching how Sherlock’s hands tightened minutely in his lap, his frost-green eyes steely and cold. Never before had John seen such a frightening expression on his companion’s face, and the fact that it was in outrage for his own childhood sent mixed signals flowing through John’s brain. Part of it was shame, that his own past had been exposed for the detective to witness, but a larger part was surprise. John had expected Sherlock to be upset, should this side of his past become clear. Any true friend would be, any human being, frankly. Yet Sherlock was livid, and it was evident in the way the detective kept a controlled steel in his voice, as well as how he would not meet John’s gaze directly. Instead he spoke like he had swallowed gravel, the words coming from his lips painfully polished but sounding like the caused him physical pain.

 

“I’ll admit that I… have a few theories, but there is ultimately nothing concrete. Blue was at most, reluctant and at worse, fearful to give information freely. She seems to have borne the… brunt of the abuse and as such does not enjoy reliving it.”

“I..can imagine.” John murmured, feeling for a moment a quell of despair. The idea that there was someone, even if that someone was a constructed personality, bearing his pain for him… it didn’t sit well with his conscience, and his hands came to absently run along the scars on his wrists. He felt bone-deep exhaustion within him, as if he had just done a mud-crawl through barbed-wire. He had no doubt that much of said weariness wasn’t his own.

 

“You apparently have a personality inside of you that is prone to violence, more so than the others. Whoever they are, it’s fairly apparent that your other Alters either fear him, respect him or both. He’s yet to make an appearance in my presence.” Sherlock carried on, oblivious to John’s inner turmoil even as he stood from the chair he had occupied in John’s bedroom to pace, hands folded in front of his chin. His eyes were narrowed in thought. “There is no way to draw out said personality if they’re entirely unwilling, and they might be so- Blue implied that they only appear when you are in severe danger, or when it serves their own purposes. But I can access the other personalities, which means I could find out more about them through interviewing the others.”

“That hasn’t seemed to work that well so far, Sherlock.” John admitted quietly, looking up at the detective through the fan of his lashes. He resisted the urge to flinch away from his companion’s agitated snort, still feeling the aftereffects of… whatever had transpired last night. “I mean, Claude seems to like you…but so far the other personalities haven’t seemed all that interested in making your acquaintance. And I can’t access them. You know that.”

Sherlock growled, a wordless noise of agitation, and he whirled to face John even as burning determination glowed hotly in his eyes like live coals.

“Then we _make_ them come out. Surely, we can do that. I’ve done it before, and it can be done again! This doesn’t make _sense,_ John! Multiple personality disorders very _rarely_ interact in this way or have this level of complexity. It’s illogical and what’s more I cannot solve it without all of the _pieces-”_

 

The increasing distress on Sherlock’s face was too much for John. Sitting up in the bed, he made himself stand, ignoring the dizzying feeling of freefall even as he righted himself and stepped towards the detective. Sherlock, still pacing, barely seemed to notice until the army doctor was standing before him, his words abruptly dying off as he turned to find John facing him down. Sherlock in that moment had the glint of mania in his eyes that spoke to him and spelled out trouble. It was the same expression John had seen in a few of his caretakers in the past, had seen in lovers that had lasted longer than the norm or old friends. This- all of this, was strange and didn’t make any sort of sense, but John knew the deer-in-the-headlights expression before him, and knew it well. It was the kind of look that made a protective current surge through his veins, as it was plastered on the normally stoic detective’s features. It was without thought that John stepped forward, crowding into Sherlock’s space. Blue eyes, burning dark and cobalt peered up at the detective, and though John was the shorter of the two Sherlock felt unaccountably small as his friend reached upwards, cupping the back of the detective’s pale neck. John’s fingers were short, trimmed and compact, warm. They gently pulled Sherlock’s face down enough so that the ex-army doctor could look into his eyes.

 

It was after a deep breath and a long period of standing frozen, that he finally pressed his lips to the detective’s. It took a full minute later before Sherlock all but folded like a stack of cards, pressing into the simple affection like a man starving for oxygen. Curled into John, spider-like fingers came to grip the ex-army doctor’s jumper, as if Sherlock was half-afraid if he didn’t that John would run away screaming. John for his part, was half fearful he might, turning into another personality he couldn’t hope to control. Yet for the first time, in so, so long… nothing happened, and the ex-army doctor could taste the contour of another’s lips against his own, feel the sweetness of a partner’s breath. It was intoxicating, _powerful._

 

Sherlock tasted like tobacco, like peppermint and tea and impatience. A heavy aphrodisiac that left John feeling as though he were falling without end. It was a breathless sensation that reminded him of adrenaline and the harsh beauty of Afghanistan, and hungrily he leaned forward for more, only to feel the detective begin to draw away. For a second, that falling sensation turned into lead in John’s stomach, his fear that this was something Sherlock did not want causing his eyes to fly open, his ears to redden in shame.

 

“Sherlock, I-” The words were already on his eyes, apologies and pleas for this moment to be forgotten, lost and ignored. Yet what the ex-army doctor found instead was Sherlock looking at him with the triumph of a puzzle suddenly coming together for him, clicking together.

“Mycroft.” The detective breathed, and John couldn’t help but tilt his head in confusion, a faintly exasperated note creeping into his voice was he responded

“I kiss you and your reaction is to think of your brother?”

“John. Mycroft offered me a file on you. At the beginning of our friendship.” At the lifting of John’s eyebrows and the man’s dangerous glare, Sherlock hastily explained. “I refused, originally. It didn’t seem… like a good thing back then. I wanted to know you, without being influenced by Mycroft’s analytical judgement of your life. Now, though… with your permission of course…”

 

The pieces then came together for John, and he breathed sharply through his nose, blue eyes widening.

“You can see if there’s a pattern. If the personalities can be summoned with something other than hypnotism, or if there’s something else in my past that’s affecting things.”

Sherlock nodded, though his eyes were hooded with a vague discomfort as he admitted

“It’ll be… thorough. Mycroft doesn’t really do discretion when it comes to searching people… I understand if you’re uncomfortable exposing all of your personal information to me.” Sherlock might of carried on, but as he spoke John’s expression had grown incredulous, and the smaller man couldn’t help but laugh outright at the detective’s feeble attempts at allowing John privacy.

“You’re worried now of all times about my privacy rights? What happened to the detective who states aloud every personal tidbit of information he can about a person? When I first met you I stood there while you completely read my military history out loud!”

 

Sherlock kept his composure more or less, but John thought he saw a flicker of ruefulness in the man’s eyes as he looked away and replied.

“I analyse generalities. Not nanobytes of a person’s life. I can’t tell you what grades you got in elementary school, although I can make an educated guess. I can’t tell you what you did at night in the care homes as a child. I can’t deduce every little thing that has happened to you since the beginning of your existence, John, but Mycroft can get the information.”

The detective looked at his companion then, the set of his jaw hard. He looked resolute. “I had no desire to begin our friendship that way, not with anything so invasive. I still dont… I don’t want to. Not if it’s not okay with you.”

It was such an honest admittance, John licked along the line of his teeth, blinking. Sherlock was often an incredibly hard man to read, not prone to bursts of sentiment, emotion. Yet he looked at John then with an expression that promised honesty, and in that moment, the ex-army doctor wanted to believe it. Still, he felt a twist inside of him, a warning in the back of his mind. He had never shared all of this, any of this, with anyone. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Sherlock, God no. He would willingly without thought, trust the detective with his very life.

 

It was just that John needed some kind of bargaining chip, something to keep their relationship equal. Otherwise, the ex-army doctor would not be able to justify it in his mind. He couldn’t, and Sherlock of all people, would understand that. It was with a quiet voice that John murmured

“You have my permission. On one condition.”

Sherlock lifted his head like a puppet jerked by its strings. His voice was low, a rumble of thunder.

“What?”

John licked his lips, shaking his head slightly even as the words came to him almost shy.

“Kiss me again? And tell me… Tell me about your past. So we can be even. Please?”

Sherlock’s lips were on his in the span of one step forward. Breathing against John’s jawline, the detective’s voice was low, soft. The softest it had ever seemed to John. Fragile. Yet it held in it a note of resignation.

“If you wish.”

 

As the detective took John’s hand in his own, it felt as if Sherlock’s fingers were pressing the ex-army doctor together, making him whole. The emotion behind it filled John with a sort of emotion that was somewhere between relief and a deep, deep sense of contentment. It rang through him, and for the first time, he felt as if he was less of a patchwork of different people, and more a unique and surviving experience.

John Watson was _alive_ , and by the scars on his arms and the weight of his heart, no one would have expected him to be. By anyone’s account, having multiple personalities would have been a sentence to die to begin with, a terrifying mental illness that stole John’s own identity away, stripped him of his persona.

 

In Sherlock’s arms, it didn’t feel like that.

In the detective’s embrace, John felt as if he was finally, _finally_ himself.

That he wasn’t just fading to blackness both indiscernible and inescapable.

 

****

“I grew up in a very… strict household, at least in my younger years.”

Seated on the bed, John and Sherlock found themselves rather curled about one another, like kittens in a basket seeking out warmth. Under normal circumstances, the level of intimacy would have perhaps unsettled John, as he was unused to such things without one of his Alters stepping in and taking over. Yet he felt comfortable, with Sherlock. Open. His head rested on the detective’s chest, and their joined fingers toyed idly with one another even as Sherlock’s eyes stared somewhere into the distance. His rumbling voice hummed vibrations against John’s ear, like the purr of some great cat. It was a rather soothing noise, if John were being honest with himself. “My mother’s first husband came from a richer line, purebloods and rahs destined to be in control of large companies and finances. As such, Mycroft and I were born in a lap of both luxury, and responsibility. We were cared for by our Nannies as much as our own mother, though Mummy even back then made it clear that we were loved and very much wanted. Still, she had her teaching job- mathematics and physics and whatnot- and so there were large stretches of time where my brother and I were left to our own devices.”

 

John could picture it, the Holmes brothers living in a large and spacious house. Empty, polished halls to run in, school uniforms pressed and clean housing Mycroft and the tiny hurricane that would have been a young Sherlock Holmes. _God_ , it would have been a _nightmare._ As if sensing his thoughts, Sherlock shifted. The silk blue fabric of his robe moved under John’s hair, and a small sigh left the detective’s mouth, almost nostalgic.

“My brother cared for me much of the time as well. Back then Mycroft wasn’t… as pompous as he is now. I will admit it only once- but we were quite close back then. There weren’t many other children that could keep up with us, and quite frankly before school began for me, I was the slowest mind in the house. Mummy was lightyears ahead of both of us, and our father hardly counted as fair play. He was never there, and when he was, he was more focused on upholding the family name.”

“Prat.” John muttered supportively, causing Sherlock’s mouth to twitch upwards in a small smile. The detective hummed in agreement, wrapping his arms more tightly about John’s frame. It felt good, all of this.

All of it felt just… _good. Right._

“He wasn’t the nicest of men, no. Although he was never physically abusive, he enjoyed being manipulative and often did not understand my… energy. Often he’d take away my experiments, my stimuli as punishment for some slight, claiming it would “improve my concentration” on other, more important matters. I would find myself bored out of my mind, with no way to express it safely. Often, I set fire to things just to ease the _boredom_ in my skull. Needless to say, I swiftly earned the hatred of many of the nannies, not to mention my father himself.” Sherlock paused then, and in the silence John felt it. The quiet sort of vulnerability that the detective so rarely displayed. It was then Sherlock took a deep, unnecessary breath as if steadying himself, and took the plunge.

“My mother divorced him on the spot the one time he ever truly lost his temper with me, but it didn’t happen until I was fifteen. He caught me and a school friend- Victor Trevor- shagging in the shed during Christmas. He was so angry that he pulled me rather violently out of the shed and slapped me across the face. Unfortunately, he did it in front of quite an audience, and Mummy. She… has never taken well to anyone even attempting to do her children any harm. Her relationship with him was cut off, and I don’t think Mycroft ever quite forgave me. He loved father, as much as I hated him. He looked up to his prowess, respected his drive. I, the fuck up younger sibling, took that away.”

 

“I’m sorry.” John said, because there was nothing else he could find to say. Sherlock didn’t seem particularly broken up by the retelling of past events, but the detective’s features were carefully blank, like a slate or a wall. The ex-army doctor wanted to wipe that painfully numb expression away. Delete it entirely from Sherlock’s repertoire. However before he could say more, the detective pushed on. It was evident he wanted this to be done and over with.

“It’s fine. Eventually, Mummy remarried. He’s a simple enough man, quiet. Kind. Even Mycroft can’t find a fault with him. But by then, I’d already begun the descent into less than favourable habits. It’s easy to do, when you have sex with a drug dealer in your family’s back shed. Victor was not a terrible person as drug dealers go, but his idea of morality could often be… flexible.”

 

Sherlock shrugged then, the sharp jut of his collarbone flexing under John’s head. The ex-army doctor resisted the urge to berate the detective’s faked nonchalance. It was evident from the stiffness in Sherlock’s voice that he was uncomfortable. Social conventions did not work easily for him, and even now John could taste the words his companion was leaving unsaid. Things like the bullying at school, because of course Sherlock would face that, things like the guilt over being a main reason of conflict between his parents. They were there though, all written just under Sherlock’s skin. It just took a while to see, to understand.

But John _knew_ Sherlock Holmes, so it was clear to him. As evident as blood-spatter at a crime scene.

It was why a moment later, the ex-army doctor tightened his hold on Sherlock’s hand, leaning upwards to kiss the underside of Sherlock’s jaw. His voice was rough with emotion, something that would likely make the man even more uncomfortable. John couldn’t really bring himself to care.

“You’re _beautiful_ , you know that? Brilliant, and it wasn’t your fault.” _It wasn’t._

Sherlock didn’t look like he quite believed, but his skin was tinged a delightful shade of surprised pink anyway. He likely meant to reply sarcastically, but his voice came out just a touch breathier than intended.

“Do you know that you do that out loud?”

Smiling, John closed his eyes, leaning against Sherlock’s chest. His own voice was warm and comforting. Safe.

“Always. How else am I supposed to let the world know what they miss when they look at you?”

 

Sherlock didn’t reply, instead pressing a tender kiss to the crown of John’s hair. Both of them had the same thought, that they could get used to this.

This kind of casual affection.

That was, so long as they could deal with the elephant in the room, the ever-present fear of John’s Alters. That however, seemed to shrink away for just a moment, a breath.

It was enough, that both men found themselves drifting to sleep, exhausted from the past few weeks.

  
It was in this way that neither of them heard the turn of the lock of the door to their flat, or the nearly soundless footsteps entering _**221 B**_ uninvited.


	25. Baskerville

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't updated in forever~~ I apologize ^.^ the good news: this fic has about 4 chapters left until it's complete, so I'll likely be inclined to finish it soon :) 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the chapter, and enjoy the close to this story as it comes~

 

 

 

When Sherlock woke, the flat was dark and a coldness has seeped into his skin that signified that the person who had been sleeping by his side had departed. John wasn’t in the bedroom, the detective could sense before he had even fully opened his eyes. There was a stillness in the air, a feeling of wrongness that pervaded his sleep and forced him to wake. He sat up slowly, feeling the ebbing good mood of last night trickle away to confusion at the emptiness of the sheets, the coolness of the fabric under his fingertips indicating that his companion had risen some time ago.  

 

In the pale wash of early dawn, the bedroom door hung open and dejected in the dark, revealing a sliver of grey hallway. Tentatively, Sherlock stood and crept forward on the balls of his feet, a peculiar tightening building in his chest as he called out John’s name, and received no answer. It was without thinking that he went out into the living room, seeing only empty chairs and his abandoned experiment left out and lonely. The sigh did not soothe him, instead merely tightening the knot of unease and wrongness in the pit of his stomach. He called out once again, receiving no answer once more. Instead, Sherlock found as he brushed past the kitchen table a note, the sight of it written in a messy child’s scrawl making his stomach drop out from under him. Claude’s warning from the evening before rang in his mind, her childlike sobs returning to Sherlock’s memories and suddenly causing him to curse loudly. The words stood out at him, written in block letters:

_HELP US._

 

Sherlock was already heading for the coat rack, his mind focused on nothing but tracing his companion’s footsteps and finding him when his mobile rang, loud and plaintive on the table. For just a moment, the detective considered ignoring it, already turning as if to go. It was at the last second that Sherlock found himself punching talk, lifting the mobile to his ear. The sound of Lestrade’s tired voice promising him a case for once didn’t send excitement coursing through Sherlock, instead leaving him with a twisting feeling of impatience. 

“Got something new for you. It’s a murder, looks like a suicide. One Henry Knight. Mid twenties, what’s special about it though is witnesses claim he had a drastic personality change right before he shot himself in the head. Not your standard aggression, but barking and frothing at the mouth, trying to bite people. His screens so far show him to be clean of drugs though. Will you come?”

 

Ordinarily, Sherlock would have brushed the case off, just due to the fact that he had more pressing concerns on his mind. However the name of the victim suddenly stuck out for him, glowing like a neon sign as he rifled his Mind Palace, searching for how he knew it. He tuned the D.I out, eyes slipping closed as he forced himself to concentrate, somehow certain it was vital to both John and the case, somehow. 

After a moment it came to him, and Sherlock nearly swayed, the image of Mycroft telling him off for being worried about John’s missing presence. The memory of the elder Holmes’ folded hands, his desk neatly organised and containing several envelopes. The topmost one by his brother’s arm. it had just been visible enough that Sherlock’s gaze had flicked to it, subconsciously picking up on the label.

 

**_PATIENT #30 IN EXPERIMENT- CODENAME HOUND (side project): Henry A. Knight._**  

 

He hadn’t been aware he had made any sound- but he must have because a second later Lestrade’s voice was calling him back to the present, the man’s tone filled with confusion. 

“ _Oi,_ Sherlock you there? What’s up, don’t tell me you have a theory already, you haven’t even seen the crime scene yet!” The detective was barely listening, a formulation of a terrible idea already coming together, pointing him with glowing arrows in a direction that previously he had been reluctant to see. Despite himself, he had let his sentiment for John, even for his elder brother blind him. Now, he could not afford that luxury. Sentiment is a chemical defect, indeed. He felt like a fool. Stupid. 

“I need to make a phone call.” 

 

Sherlock’s voice was steely, cutting off whatever else the D.I had been trying to ask. He hung up, dialing instead Mycroft’s number. It rang once, twice before the elder Holmes’ dry voice answered on the other line. 

“Brother mine, to what do I owe this unexpected call? I thought we had scheduled for me to arrive with John’s files in the afternoon, giving you and the good doctor time to indulge-”

“What is _HOUND_ and how does it relate to John?” Sherlock interrupted, cutting through his brother’s sarcasm like a knife. In response there was a beat of silence, stretching outwards between the two of them. It felt impossibly long somehow, until Mycroft’s heavy sigh resonated through the line. Sherlock’s hand tightened at his side as his brother, sounding uncharacteristically world-weary, gave up the game of his ignorance. 

“There will be an unmarked vehicle picking you up shortly to take you to the Diogenes. We can talk there, but Sherlock… You might not wish to know.”

The detective’s voice was soft, deadly.

“If you were involved in this…” It was left unsaid, but the threat was clear. By way of answer, there was a knock at the door. The sound of Mrs Hudson calling for Sherlock, letting in the driver of the car was the only reply the detective needed. He hung up, fingers reaching for his coat, collar popped up as if bracing himself against the future information he would receive as if it were poisonous to hear. 

 

****

 

The Diogenes was habitually made of gold lamplight and stuffy men, all glaring at Sherlock in an affronted manner as he stomped into the club, feet gratingly loud against the floor. His great coat billowed behind him, making him a menacing figure, eyes aflame as he all but tore the door off of its hinges, his brother’s unimpressed face only serving to heighten the detective’s emotions into something lethal. He stopped before the desk, neglecting to even sit down as he braced his hands against its wooden surface. Blue eyes burned, intent and piercing. 

“Explain it. _All_ of it. There’s not much time and I don’t have any more patience.”

Mycroft, for once neglecting his usual barbs regarded his brother seriously, grey eyes gazing at the man that for much of his adult life claimed to be heartless. Yet here, nothing about Sherlock was unemotional, not to a trained eye who knew the man. Too cold, too sharp, the detective was shrapnel, all jagged lines wrought from stress at the possibility of losing something he had only just begun to hope he had gained.

 

“You’ll want to sit down. There’s a lot of information to go through. I’ve ensured that this room will not be disturbed for the remainder of the afternoon.” Carefully keeping a measured tone, Mycroft was rewarded when his brother glanced at the seat he had neglected behind him. Grudgingly, the detective accepted the offer, sitting down with one leg crossed over the other. His hands came to his lips prayer-style, a thinking position and a posture for memorisation. It was a position that didn’t pretend that Sherlock’s goal in mind wasn’t gleaning every detail he could from the elder Holmes. Still, the detective hadn’t expected his brother to hold up a memory stick of all things, plugging it into the laptop set aside before turning the screen in Sherlock’s direction. Mycroft stood to dim the lights, brushing past his brother with even, measured steps. The detective did not look away from the screen, even as the file loaded, and a grainy video floated to the desktop’s surface. Mycroft listened quietly, having heard the introduction a half dozen times himself, watching his brother’s silhouette in silence. Sherlock’s curls were a halo of chocolate-raven rings, his blue eyes tracking in silence the movement of the camera as it slowly came to face a hallway of what could only be described as cells. 

 

Mycroft Holmes closed his eyes as the man introduced himself behind the camera, even as the lens focused on one particular cell, where one shivering form lay curled up in a cot that seemed far too big for his body. 

 

_“My name is Dr Simon Franklin, and I am one of the head scientists and researchers here at the Baskerville Research Facility. This is a classified experiment, coded numerically as #83945-J. The “Human Ocular Neuro-perception Displacement” serum, codenamed H.O.U.N.D is a form of hallucinogen, patented and designed by geneticists such as Dr Stapleton. Our aim is to use the serum to PTSD cases such as this patient here in dealing with their memories, altering their perception of the incident so that they remember the events of it through the eyes of another person, thus allowing their emotions to be less hindered by the traumatic event.”_

A shift in the camera, zooming in on a pale face half-hidden in shadow. It wouldn’t matter, Sherlock would recognise those blue eyes without fail, his own breath coming marginally quicker, the only outward sign of his rage and distress. Unaware of its viewer Dr Franklin carried on, his recorded voice proudly outlining his accomplishments like a child presenting Christmas presents to their parents. 

_“Patient 27- John Watson suffered in foster care before coming to our facility. A number of issues, including dissociation from events have manifested in the patient in his childhood years. Here, we’ve managed to heighten these personalities, make them more clearly come to life. While he is in a dissociative state, John does not remember the past events of his life, only what said persona that has taken over remembers. Before, John struggled with a “blurring” phenomena, unable to tell reality from an altered perception. He often fought nightmares, suffered insomnia and anxious thoughts. Now, the patient’s emotions are compartmentalized, boxed and organised cleanly.”_ A hum of triumph, and Mycroft saw Sherlock’s fists slowly curl against his knees, knuckles tightening to white. _“As you might guess, this serum, a small injection that will last for much of the patient’s life could benefit not even just severe cases of abuse such as patient 27, but soldiers suffering from PTSD. With the proper training, Stapleton and I plan on putting this patient to the test, given the fact that he is, by far, our most successful specimen yet.”_

 

****

A new home, a boarding school of sorts connected with the military. John didn’t know what to expect, but the change in his medication made his head swim, his thoughts sleepy. The car ride was quiet enough, lead to his new residence by one of the staff. Lawrence Brenton, that had been his name. A young man with crooked teeth but a warm grin, well-meaning but overtaxed by the younger children to put up with John’s behavioural issues. He chatted John’s ear off during the ride, but the young adult wasn’t too interested in reciprocating. 

He stared out the window, hoping against hope that whatever this new facility had to offer, they would fix him. 

 

****

New pills, days that blurred together. Tests that involved running on a treadmill once a day, eating certain foods or writing out tests. All were recorded by the people working at Baskerville. John asked when he could write to some of his friends in Foster Care. Dr Franklin dodged his inquiry with a well-meaning smile and a diversion by giving John a new book on biology and cells. 

 

****

_Pain._

So much pain. John parted his lips to scream, feeling as if he were falling. He was on fire, no he was being shocked. No, he was being beaten again and again, his signals mixed up and giving him different explanations as to the source of his agony. John opened tear-stained eyes, seeing the figure above him. The man in the white coat asked him questions. 

“Who are you?”

 

John replied, anything to get the pain to stop, to end his torment. 

_“J-John H-Ham-Mish-”_ He wasn’t able to finish before another wave of torment washed over him, and the teen drowned once more in the ocean of pain that was his whole world in that moment. 

 

****

Two months passed like this, swimming in and out of consciousness. Tests and experiments left him sick or injured or emotionally drained. John went to bed each night feeling as if he was living in Hell. He’d been unable to contact anyone for help, his progress monitored sharply. He missed his friends, he missed eating a damn cheeseburger. Most of all, John missed the spaces in which he felt nothing, knew nothing. 

If he could just feel nothing, the pain wouldn’t bother him. He’d fight them, protect himself. The thought filled him with a kind of rage, bubbling over his skin. John’s hands flexed in grubby fists against his chest, his eyes open in the darkness of his cell. As he slept, he dreamed of swimming into a dark abyss, a boat taking him far, far away from all his troubles. 

 

John closed his eyes, and in the morning, Conrad awoke for the first time. The scientists came for their regular check-up on their patient, only to find themselves savagely attacked. 

After that day, the response to their question of “Who are you?” was never again just “John Watson.”

 

**** 

Daniel was a personality trained for war. He knew how to load a gun instinctively, knew military code better than even himself. Baskerville had bred him, made him who he was since the first time he woke to new tests, designed to bring out the soldier in the shell that was once John Watson. 

 

He did not know anything outside of battle, deployments to Afghanistan his air, his life force. His purpose. He was a fantastic soldier, quick to follow and give orders, and he didn’t question his superiors, not ever. He was used in the most secret of operations, and no one in the army questioned if sometimes he slipped into someone else for a while, used to “John Watson’s” abrupt change of moods. 

Daniel loved the army, it was everything he needed. 

Then he was shot, and all of the personalities, himself included were cut from Baskerville. The facility had been found out, a man named Mycroft Holmes ending the experiments, the torment. They released all patients, but offered no aid save for declaring that they would be monitored for most of their lives. John Watson, Henry Knight and a few other patients all found themselves free after a nightmare of a childhood. It was no wonder, how many didn’t live through even that year. 

Daniel almost missed the facility, even as he hated it.  

 

After all, how was he to know what his purpose was if there was no one to guide him? He floated, a personality with no direction, no goals. For the first time in nearly a decade, John Watson took main control. Daniel didn’t want to be in charge, not if he wasn’t standing in the arid desert, not if he wasn’t fulfilling what he was meant to do. John found himself in a plain bedsit, with several personalities all very much awake and alive within him. Yet John himself had no memories, no bad things that he could remember he endured. That was Daniel’s one gift to John before he fell back to wait: the chance to find his own purpose, his own life. After allowing Daniel the chance at his own for so long, it was the least the soldier could do for him. 

 


	26. How Would You Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eyyyy so things are heating up and this fic is on its way to the conclusion~ ^_^ 
> 
> I hope you enjoy, and hopefully I'll be able to wrap this up with a nice little ribbon (aka some smut and fluff) soon :) 
> 
> usual warnings should be heeded, of course~

 

 

Conrad knew from his birth that he was a mistake.

Born from rage, he woke in the world an infant, howling and terrified and yet an adult in mind and body. He had lashed out, striking any that would come near. Many tried, and many learned quickly that he was not someone to be crossed. He was a caged tiger, a rabid wolf to be kept in a choke collar. He was fury, and he was John’s temper kept under lock and key. He was a broken fragment, unable to feel anything except anger, and when he woke his heart pounded and blood sang in his ears.

 

For such a mild-mannered doctor, John held so much rage.

The army fuelled that, the terror of comrades dying and the daily stress of battle putting its toll on John’s psyche. Though he himself felt none of it, his other personalities suffered. Conrad’s memories consisted mostly of those days, during high-stress situations when he was pressing his hands against someone’s wound, screaming out orders in his captain’s voice and wishing distantly for a cigarette.

Getting shot had burned through him like a lance, and the fever made all of the personalities delirious and strange. Their mind was splintered, shattered it seemed beyond repair, and the man that emerged in John Watson’s skin was all of them and none of them at once.

 

Then they met Sherlock Holmes, and Conrad found that he was not needed, that the anger that John had held onto, bit by bit, had begun to disintegrate and disappear. He tried to catch its coattails, did his best to grasp onto some semblance of sanity in this strangely exciting yet joyful world in which he had been thrown. Yet he had no idea if he would be called on again, no idea whether or not he even wanted to be.

He was unwanted, with the detective taking away John’s pain, piece by tiniest piece.

 

So he closed his eyes and drifted, watchful and just underneath the surface. He had one purpose and one only: to protect the body, to protect John.

In a way, he meditated on the fact that it could very well mean that he now had a duty to protect Sherlock Holmes.

 

In the darkness, he lit a cigarette. It burned cherry-red as Moriarty’s laugh echoed across their mind, shiveringly close to the surface of wakefulness.

 

****

Sherlock’s hand brushed across the screen, stopping the recording at its end for the fifth time in a row. Each time, the camera cut at the image of a younger John, eyes frighteningly blank as blue eyes stared into the distance. Franklin’s voice echoed in Sherlock’s thoughts despite the silence of the room, a nonstop chant of terrible triumph that made the detective’s stomach twist sourly into knots.

_We declare patient 27 to be a complete success, despite the initial setbacks. He has made great improvements, and all personalities show a willingness to cooperate with our chain of command. We have no concerns about his future behaviour. He will be monitored closely to gauge future risks to his overall mental health and his risk to others in the future._

 

Sherlock lifted his fingers once more, planning to swipe the recording back to its beginning. It was at this time that Mycroft’s voice cut in the silence, having watched his brother’s hunched figure now for the better part of an hour stare at John’s face with something like obsessive intent.

The elder Holmes cleared his throat, the poshly rounded syllables of his voice floating through the air with deliberate calm.

“It would appear that Franklin’s team did not anticipate future splintering of personalities. They felt as though they had evaluated all of John’s potential Alters, and deemed them all if not self-destructive, at the very least not destructive to others.”

The shake of Sherlock’s head was sharp, dark curls snapping with the movement with a stilted jerk.

“It wasn’t a new personality.” He denied. His blue eyes cut along the screen, orbs that reflected John’s impassive face staring back at him. “It was a clever one. It’s been _hiding,_ pulling strings behind the scenes.”

“You know this, how?” Mycroft inquired mildly. He watched as his brother snorted under his breath, his fingers nervously ticking against the armrests of the chair.

“The others, they told me. Or rather, hinted at it. They’re all afraid of it, or at the very least wary. It’s completely psychotic. Even John’s most depressive personality won’t talk to it.”

 

Sherlock turned to his brother then, seeing the way his brother’s lips quirked minutely. The detective’s blue eyes narrowed, reading the minor tell.

“You know who it is.”

“There was… an _incident,_ after Baskerville was shut down and Dr Franklin let go.” Mycroft evaded the question, flicking an imaginary piece of lint from his cuffs and all the while avoiding his brother’s piercing gaze. It was as close to discomfort as Mycroft really got. “Franklin and various members of his staff suddenly vanished, despite our best efforts to keep a weather eye on them. Six months later, the bodies began washing to shore. They all had the same message carved into their chests.”

 

Mycroft seemed to take the barest of breaths then, his hands tightening around the handle of his umbrella. When he spoke, it was as if he were purposefully trying to gentle the grisly demise of the victims for his brother’s sake. Sherlock could have snorted in derision, it wasn’t like he felt the least bit of remorse for anyone who had a hand in tormenting John.

“ _I.O.U._ An eye for an eye, it seemed. It wasn’t John’s handwriting, but then again you’ve seen how the letters of his penmanship change with his personalities.”

Sherlock’s eyes shut with the deluge of information, wordlessly assimilating the data even as his voice came as a hiss through the cage of his teeth.

 

“John is not responsible for the actions of Alters _your scientists_ antagonised, Mycroft. If it comes to light that he is in any way involved with these crimes, then I assure you I will not _hesitate-_ ”

“And what if I were to tell you that this personality is far more than just a killer, Sherlock?” The elder Holmes cut his brother off harshly, his voice like nails against the inner tissue of Sherlock’s ears. “You’ve seen the potential intelligence that resides within John, his Alters have managed to build up a facade of normalcy but the reality remains that your companion is not a stable man, and hasn’t been for some time. Your _friend_ is a front; Sherlock. He's bait and worse, you've _fallen_ for it.” The last part was said with an edge of pleading, so uncommon in Mycroft’s voice what Sherlock had to shut his eyes, his head jerking his chin away from his brother’s direction as if bracing himself for an invisible blow.

 

Mycroft’s voice softened.

“John Watson is a kind, loyal mask put together to keep the rest of his memories under lock and key. He, and all of his other Alters are coping mechanisms, and not real people. Tell me Sherlock, you pretend to know your friend, but are you really so blind as to not see that perhaps John was nudged into living with you, that his other personalities had some ulterior motives to know your every move? To get _close_ to you?”

 

“John is not Moriarty.” Sherlock denied after a beat, so quietly that Mycroft strained to hear. The elder Holmes’ mouth was a pinched line of disbelief at his brother’s face, hidden from view by the fringe of the detective’s curls.

Mycroft’s smile was fairly pitying, and Sherlock found he couldn’t bear to look at it.

 

“How would you know?”

 

****

The text came to Sherlock in the evening, after the detective had spent the day all but secluded in Mycroft’s office. Scotland Yard had begun a search for John Watson, but the detective was fully aware that the Alters had gone underground before, and would have no hesitation of doing so again.

He also knew without a doubt that he’d be getting a clue any day now. It was simply Moriarty’s way, the puzzles and the riddles all having one aim, one goal: to attract Sherlock’s attention.

 

Instead, the detective had chosen to throw himself down the avenue of possible solutions, already feeling a twisting in his gut as he demanded of his brother if there was any evidence of being able to reverse the effects of the _H.O.U.N.D_ project. Mycroft had seemed doubtful, the flexing of his hands upon the handle of his umbrella musing as he stared somewhere in the middle distance.

“Most of the patients of the projects either died or killed themselves within the first few months of disbanding the facility, and at the time I had put a blanket refusal towards the funding of anything to do with Baskerville. Besides John, there was only one other subject that’s still alive until recent cirumstances, and he’s not what one might call a success story.”

 

Sherlock had perused the file of Henry Knight upon his brother’s words, reading it by lamplight even as the day stretched into darkness. A boy with large, blue-green eyes and ears that stuck out in a rather unfortunate way looked back at him through a grainy photograph. The description of the patient’s Alters was vague, and truthfully not wholly similar or as complex as John’s.

 

_Subject deals with reoccurring flashbacks and nightmares to previous abuse administered to him by his older brother (now deceased). H.O.U.N.D was administered three days ago. The subject appears to have split into two distinct personalities: a human and a creature deemed “The Hound” by the other scientists. A joke to our project’s name, I’m afraid. Patient 456’s other personality is mostly nonverbal, animalistic. The patient’s ability to reason or solve complex problems is aggressively reduced with this shift, while his anger comes to the forefront. More analysis is needed to know the exact cause behind this personality, but our drug appears to have made the split a permanent divide in the patient’s psyche. Patient 456 has no anger while assuming the personality of “Henry Knight”. “The Hound”; is only anger._

 

“He lived in the countryside, ironically close to where the Baskerville facility used to be.” Mycroft supplied. “I am told he was being looked after by a distant relative. Henry’s “Hound” personality was later suppressed via a trial drug that Franklin was developing, however its administration caused… other issues.”

“His suppressed memories returned to him.” Sherlock guessed, Mycroft’s silence speaking for him.

The elder Holmes’ parting words before he left Sherlock to his waiting game rang in the detective’s ear, niggling its way under his skin.

“The last time I personally saw Henry, was three years after the incident. Upon recognising me as the man who took him out of Baskerville, he said and I quote: _“Some things, Mr Holmes, are better off not being remembered.”_ Keep in mind, Sherlock. John has been dissociative since _childhood._ Henry, since he had been in his late teens. _”_

 

Sherlock’s mind flicked to Claude then, to Blue and Daniel and Conrad and Sneak. All facets of _John,_ but all somehow brought to life by a series of chemicals, enhanced until they themselves were personalities and people in their own right. They were people, they were coping mechanisms. They had all mutated into something more, something John revolved around, worked with and kept hidden and secret. He thought of John’s fear, the hesitancy to share with Sherlock his past and the man’s in some ways, blissful ignorance. John’s childhood had been hell, that much had been gleaned, and Sherlock’s insides wanted to curdle at the idea of allowing his companion to remember even a second of such abuse.

Yet a deeper part of Sherlock wondered at John’s courage, as well as what he would say if he knew the lives he had unknowingly taken. Could anyone hope to live with that guilt? Would it be preferable to recall such events and have to live with them, or to exist, divided and shattered but ultimately functional?

 

“The formula for this cure?” Sherlock asked, and Mycroft sighed. Tight-lipped, he gestured towards the files on his desk, and Sherlock picked out from the lot of them a small vial, purple liquid shimmering inside. He reached for it, and in the reflective light the vial seemed almost pink as he held it to his face, weighing the options in his chest and feeling as though there was no real solution to the problem at hand.

  


The sun sank just below the horizon when Sherlock’s phone chimed. John’s number flashed eerily up at him, but the words were foreign and read like ash in the detective’s mouth.

_Let’s have dinner, my treat darling. I’m looking forward to meeting you in person. ~xo_

 

The attached image was a swimming pool Sherlock recognised immediately. A curling of nausea worked its way in his stomach, even as he thrust the phone into his pocket, long fingers reaching for his woollen coat and plucking it from his chair.

 

****

The stench of chlorine tended to make Sherlock’s mind wander, back to memories of childhood. Swimming lessons had been a mandate set down by his father and mother both, and he had grown up often at the edge of a pool, staring into turquoise depths as the other children plunged and swam about.

 

Now the pool was deserted, and like a lonely ghost still lingered in it; Sherlock felt a chill running up and down his spine. He dug his hands further into his pockets, bracing against it subconsciously. The microphone that Mycroft had insisted upon was well hidden, tucked into the collar of his suit. The speaker muttered into his ear.

 

_Careful, brother mine. We have reason to believe that you’re being watched._

Sherlock might have smirked at any other time. He would have been insulted if Moriarty _hadn’t_ been watching.

He stepped into the darkened area of the pool, noticing the gentle lapping of the water, the greenish glow of the lights casting strange shadows in the darkness. Sherlock was hyper-aware of the gun at his side, not his own but John’s. It was an unfamiliar weight, cold and impersonal. He was as well aware of the way his own heart seemed louder in the silence, pounding in his ears.

Sherlock came to a stop at the centre of the pool’s edge, gaze flicking about in the silence, waiting for the next move. He needn’t have waited long.

 

There was the sound of movement, and then Sherlock felt the breath punched from his stomach, his worst fears confirmed as John stepped out from the pool changing rooms, a heavy parka covering a pristine, westwood suit. The gait of the man was wrong, as was the look in John’s eyes. Though it was his friend’s face, Sherlock saw none of John in the lazy, coiling smile that alighted his features. Gone was the soft countenance of _John,_ replaced with clothing that was formal and stiff, the shoes alone likely more expensive than the army doctor would normally be able to afford.

That was not the most horrifying aspect, however.

What undid Sherlock was the accent that rolled off of John’s tongue, completely foreign and vaguely amused. John looked at Sherlock as if he were a fly, caught helplessly in the web of a spider.

 

The Alter spoke in a casual, Irish brogue, the words lilting off his tongue.

“You have my number, I was hoping you’d call sooner.” John smiled, and the grin was feral, all teeth and completely and utterly mad. "After all, we don't just  _kiss_ and tell." 

Sherlock's voice felt like lead, and as he lifted the gun slowly he felt the tremble in his hands. For underneath John's parka, cold grey wiring lay tangled and complicated, a lethal promise of explosives. His words were a plea, hoarse and made of glass. 

_"John."_

He watched as the man he loved laughed at him, a cruel and mocking sound. John shook his head in refusal of his own name, and with a lick of his lips introduced himself, spreading his hands in mock-presentation. 

“Not even close. Jim Moriarty. _Hi._ ”


	27. We All Drown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty wants to take up a partnership. Sherlock's not convinced.

 

 

It was so strange in some ways, how someone could be exactly the same and yet fundamentally, different. It was in the little tells of their posture, the lines about their eyes, how they would smile and yet it wasn’t the smile you had known for so long. 

Sherlock stood facing a stranger in John Watson’s skin, his gun hand trembling with the  _ wrongness  _ of its lethal qualities and a cold sweat breaking out along his neck. 

 

Moriarty was grinning, a knowing smirk that made familiar blue eyes seem cold and distant and strange. His head was tilted in a reptilian fashion of interest, and his gaze barely seemed to register the weapon pointed at him as he spoke. 

“Now here’s a plot line I could invest myself in:  _ Sherlock Holmes Kills His Psychotic Lover And In The Process Blows Himself up _ , why It’s positively  _ maudlin.  _ What happened to “sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side”, dearest?”

 

Sherlock didn’t answer the question, his face looking waxen and vaguely ill. Why was his heart trying to twist its way out of his ribs? John wouldn’t have done this if he had any control, he knew that. Yet the proof of what he saw before his eyes still hurt like a physical blow, and he found himself struggling to find his feet. He didn’t understand, didn’t  _ know  _ how to reason with someone who thought it fun to strap semtex to people _. _ He only knew that in that moment he couldn’t have stopped the rasp of betrayal in his voice, walking the thin edge between calm and sentiment. 

“You wanted my attention, and you’ve got it. Now tell me, what do you want?” 

Moriarty grinned, head tilting in a reptilian gesture as John’s shoulders shrugged. His voice was a purr of interest. 

“What indeed.” Moriarty smirked slowly, muttering to himself in satisfaction. “I occasionally forget now and again, it’s right on the  _ tip _ of my tongue…” 

 

He stuck out his tongue then, mocking Sherlock with a grin. The detective’s lips twitched into a sneer, blue eyes darkening as he growled threateningly.

“An answer, or I  _ will _ shoot.”

“I’d like to see that,” Moriarty stated conversationally “I really would. My surprise would be endless, I guarantee you.” 

 

Sherlock watched as Jim stepped back then, stretching out his arms as if to say  _ “hit me if you dare”.  _ The detective’s aim on his chest did not waver, nor could he bring himself to fire. Moriarty’s grin was knowing, and it curled again as the madman whispered in satisfaction. 

“That’s what I thought. See Sherlock, in your question you already have your answer. What I’ve wanted from you, since the very beginning, is your focus.” 

 

Jim lowered his arms to his side, and his voice rang out across the pool, slow and maniacal and every bit  _ “Not John” _ , so that Sherlock’s grip around the handle of the gun tightened enough to feel his bones creak. 

“You see, that’s the problem with living in a shell with multiple other versions of yourself- you find after a while that human beings as a whole don’t really live unless they have a purpose. Something keeping them going. I was brought in the world for one thing and one thing only- to kill people that hurt my vessel.” 

Sherlock watched as Jim smoothed his hands down his chest, perilously close to the nest of curling wires clustered about his middle. His heart constricted in panic. “What was I to do then, when I fulfilled my purpose a mere few days after my creation?” Jim whispered, and something in his voice was wistful, mockingly-soft. 

 

He gestured suddenly, and Sherlock’s eyes widened as he caught the flash of a red beam of light, centred over his forehead. His head whipped about, seeing nothing in the darkened banisters of the pool and yet searching for the source. A sniper, Mycroft had been correct then in his prediction that they would not be alone. John’s laugh cut through the detective, forcing him to look back at the man before him. Jim looked gleeful at the carefully-masked fear in Sherlock’s eyes. He giggled as if it was the best present one could possibly hope to receive. 

“See, this was my conundrum, Sherlock. I struggled to find purpose, a meaning to this dull, BORING world. When I found it, it seemed so simple… so brilliant and elegantly flawless. John didn’t need me to kill any more, but others could  _ need _ me. They would write me letters, Sherlock, asking for my help. _ “Please, Mr Jim. Please make it better and get rid of that nasty mistress. Help me kill my brother for the inheritance.” _ Pathetic. All of them deserve to die.” 

 

“You’re insane.” Sherlock stated, and Jim once again chuckled, shaking his head so that John’s blonde hair glinted in the pool light. His eyes were darkened in madness. 

“Enlightened, is my preferred term. Now onto the business matter: your focus.” The cheerful expression sobered into something darker, and Sherlock felt a prickle of unease as Jim’s gaze swept over him, as if peeling away his skin to the bone until there might be nothing but pumping organs and bones to see. 

“See the thing is, Sherlock, that I have been trapped in this godforsaken shell of a body with six other personalities for as long as I can remember, and none of them are as  _ fun  _ as you. Genius needs an audience, and I’m afraid I’ve grown rather bored of working in the shadows. Even having insurance to get you to do my will, I have to admit I’d much rather a willing compliance.” The dot on his head moved then, flickering instead to his chest. 

 

It came to Sherlock then, like a wave threatening to bowl him over. His knees felt like water, and he might have laughed at the irony of it all. 

“Partnership.” The detective breathed, his fingers flexing on the gun. John’s smile mocked him, blue eyes dancing in the pool light. Sherlock couldn’t seem to move, even as Moriarty stepped forward, invading his personal space. This close, the detective could detect John’s warmth, his scent. Familiar smells of tea and comfort and familiarity were betrayed by the voice hissing in his ear, and Sherlock’s eyes closed, his brain negating the dual sensations.

“In every sense of the word.” Moriarty promised, John’s chest pressed perilously close to the gun’s muzzle. Sherlock’s free hand strayed to his pocket, fingering the epi-pen needle shape it hid. John was so close… it’d only take one quick movement…

 

Yet Moriarty it seemed saw fit to speak, and his words in John’s voice had a way of gaining Sherlock’s focus, holding it. It was ingrained in him by this point, to listen reflexively to John when he spoke. Foolish, how sentiment could affect someone. 

“Don’t you get  _ bored,  _ Sherlock? Tired of all of this. These ordinary people… I know you’ve grown attached to more than just John.” 

 

Moriarty’s voice transformed then, John’s posture dramatically changing. 

Sherlock felt rather than saw the way his companion’s shoulders slumped, and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly when a querulous voice spoke into his ear. 

“S-Sherlock?” 

Claude’s voice was small and afraid, disoriented. Sherlock felt his pulse quicken, and he spoke without thinking, reaching up to touch along the sleeves of John’s jacket, moving the gun away from his companion’s chest. “I’m scared.” The little girl cried softly. John’s shoulders shuddered with suppressed sobs. It was instinct to comfort.

“Claude… It’s okay now, everything will be ok. You need to trust-”

 

One could almost forget that all personalities except John had access to each other’s memories, and subsequently all were military trained. 

Sherlock had no time to prepare against the attack, as it came suddenly and savagely. John’s hand shot out towards his wrist, striking the gun from his grip and twisting his arm. The detective was forced backwards, pinned as his arm was twisted behind his back, John’s other hand finding a grip in his curls and yanking  _ hard.  _ Sherlock gasped in pain, his head forcibly tilted so that the ceiling of the pool swam before him, in and out of focus. This hiss in his ear is venomous. 

“The army isn’t all that intellectually stimulating, but I’ll give them this: It’s made this body strong and gave me networks to manipulate.” 

Sherlock snarled as the joints in his arm creaked, the haze of pain sharp, crystallizing his vision until it seemed like the pool tiles stood out in intricate detail. He could feel that the red pinpoint of light hadn’t left his skull. The gun had been released from his grip, skittering perilously close to the pool’s edge. The detective stiffened when he felt John’s fingers delve inside his coat pockets, so like the time he had asked the man to get him his phone. Sherlock writhed in panic, feeling Moriarty’s fingers deftly pick the vial of antidote, drawing it out into the open air. If he found the speaker tucked into Sherlock’s collar, the detective knew that the game would be up.

 

“Clever, clever.” The madman chuckled in Sherlock’s ear, warm breath ghosting down his spine. “Your brother does have his uses in a pinch, it seems. Did you really think you’d be able to get close enough to prick me with this?” Thoroughly distracted by the vial, Moriarty appeared not to notice Sherlock’s preoccupation. Mycroft’s voice was muttering in his ear, an absent habit that the man had been cursed with since childhood.

_ “Almost there… distract him for just a few more minutes.”  _

 

“John,” Sherlock murmured, trying to see if there was any semblance left of the man beneath Moriarty’s exterior. “John I need you to fight this. To wake up. I know you can, you’ve done it before with the other personalities.”

Moriarty laughed, flinging Sherlock away and to the side, twirling the vial in his hand. His eyes were filled with mirth even as his leg drew back, connecting solidly with the base of Sherlock’s spine. The detective gasped, cowering instinctively as the next kick came, this one aimed higher and towards his kidneys. 

“John is so far gone at this point darling that it’d take a  _ miracle  _ for him to hear you. He’s a sleeper personality by  _ nature, _ Sherlock. He  _ avoids _ conflict. He disappeared when I killed our family, and he disappeared when I hunted down the people from Baskerville. It’s his  _ instinct,  _ at this point. He’s a coward.”

 

The red light trained to Sherlock’s skull had vanished, but Moriarty didn’t seem to notice. Too busy gloating over his triumph. Sherlock heard the confirmation a moment later, his brother’s voice murmuring his assent. 

_ “It’s done.” _

The detective didn’t react physically, instead slowly and painfully getting himself up via his elbows, then his hands. Moriarty watched on, apparently allowing it with a wide-tooth grin. John’s blue eyes glittered predatorily, looking on at the detective licked across his teeth. Sherlock could taste blood in his spit, a split lip the direct culprit. 

 

Barely an inch away from one another, the detective’s pale gaze flicked to the vial in Moriarty’s hand. Moriarty smiled a cruel smirk, his fingers flicking towards the pool. 

“Checkmate, Sherlock Holmes. John is gone, and you can’t have him back. Not without me. Face it, I’m smarter, I’m more  _ interesting,  _ and I know  _ what you like. _ ” 

The vial sailed through the air, and Sherlock watched as it landed in the pool water, sinking below the surface as a shimmering beacon of violet light. 

 

The detective’s voice was quiet, and to most the slump of his shoulders would indicate defeat, exhaustion.

“It’s true that you’re a part of John, a part of his experiences. The John Watson I know would not exist without you.”

Footsteps drew nearer, Moriarty drawn by the attraction of Sherlock’s words. Sherlock resisted the urge to flinch as hands lifted themselves to either side of his face, cupping his jaw. John’s hands, so recognisable, warm on his skin and small compared to his own. Still so strong. 

“You say such flattering words.” Moriarty purred, and made to lean his face closer to Sherlock’s. 

“And you forgot that your other personalities have triggers of their own.”

Sherlock snapped, never giving Moriarty the chance to move out of the way. His hand came up in a fist, clocking John across the face in a mean right-hook. He watched his friend’s head snap back at the force of it, and Sherlock in that moment thanked the years that his father, in an attempt to instil masculinity into him, forced him into boxing. 

 

Moriarty stumbled back several feet with the strike, pool water creating a slick that the man’s expensive shoes couldn’t hope to resist. Falling backwards, Sherlock winced as John once again hit his head on the pool tile, not enough to knock him out but enough that the detective expected the harsh, guttural Welsh accent that echoed throughout the pool. 

_ “What the actual buggering fuck, Holmes?!” _

 

Conrad glared up at Sherlock, cradling his head and vibrating with rage, and Sherlock had never in his life felt so blessed even as his friend lunged at him, all but lifting him off the ground with the force of his propelled movement. The detective was able to rip the speaker out of his ear just in time, using his momentum to push Conrad and himself both directly into the pool. His own head struck the tile, pain lancing up his skull even as Conrad fought him, struggling viciously. The cold water and sharp scent of chlorine filled Sherlock’s lungs and mouth, but he refused to loosen the grip he had of John’s collar. 

He would never let go, not for anything in the world. 

 

****

Red seemed to fill the pool. 

Red anger. 

Red blood. 

All were crimson shades that Conrad struggled to see past, the sharp bite of pool water acrid at the back of his throat. 

 

A heavy weight was pulling him under, clutching to his clothing. He was surrounded by a coat, thick and bulky, weighted down with wires and metal. Conrad instinctively shrugged out of it, wiggling like a fish until he was merely in a suit, floating freely. The weight didn’t leave however, and blinking through the burn of the chlorine he saw the shadow of a figure, clutching to him like a life preserver. Sherlock. 

He was the source of the red, a head wound blooming across his scalp, the detective’s eyes closed with unconsciousness. The water caused the blood to hang about his curls in waves, flowing towards the surface. Conrad found his hands slipping towards the man’s neck, taking in the rapid, fluttering pulse. He felt the pulse of the other personalities, now holding Moriarty down and screaming at him. 

_ Protect Sherlock Holmes.  _

 

It was instinct to grab the man, pulling him closer so that his weight was pressed to their good shoulder. Sherlock, limp and compliant, curled about his body like a wraith. Kicking already towards the surface, Conrad nearly missed the glint of a violet vial, sitting at the bottom of the pool floor. 

It was Claude’s voice that piped up, demanding he dive further and pick it up, fingers clumsy and skull already pounding from the beating it had received. 

Deep inside them, Moriarty screamed. Conrad ignored the sound and the feeling of all of his personalities being cut into jagged pieces of chaos by pressing Sherlock that much closer to himself, using the pool floor to push them both up towards the surface. 


	28. Goodbye Sherlock Holmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, this was a huge project that I'm afraid rather got away from me ^_^ This is officially the last chapter, but I'm in the process of writing a fluffy epilogue.  
> Thank you all so much for reading this fic, and I hope you enjoy the ending. I've loved all of the kind comments, kudos and art I've received :)

 

 

Sherlock was lying in an open field, warm summer sun tossing his curls and making it so that they fell into his eyes. He could feel the touch of the grass beneath him, smell its sweet scent and taste it in the back of his throat.

Or was that burning?

He wasn’t quite sure, it was hard to see, hard to know. When he opened his eyes everything seemed not quite as it should be, the memory twisting and warping before him. A distant part of Sherlock’s brain supplied the obvious: concussion.

 

Yet there was obviously another issue, as quite suddenly there was a brutal pounding on his chest, pressing like an elephant’s strike against his ribcage. It jolted his entire frame, breaking the scenic meadow environment and calling to the fact that Sherlock’s lungs _burned._ His chest heaved with the knowledge, as did his stomach, and black spots danced before his eyes. It was instinct that had Sherlock’s body moving, turning himself over onto what he now knew was not grass, but scummy pool tile. The detective vomited violently, hacking and coughing out water from his lungs. Each heave wracked his frame, and his ribs ached with the pull of it until he was trembling.

 

Warm hands were pressed to him, supporting his weight. A Scottish brogue murmured in his ear encouragingly, mopping Sherlock’s soaking wet curls back from his forehead. When there was nothing left to throw up, the detective gasped for air. he flopped like a wet fish onto his side, blue eyes blurrily blinking past his own tears and chlorine, his heart thundering in his chest like a quick march.

 

John’s face swam above him, but it was Daniel’s voice that spoke to him in concern. Clinical hands touched along his jaw, testing his responsiveness even as he greeted Sherlock back to the world of the living.

“Evening, sunshine. Nice to see you back with us. The ambulance is on its way, courtesy of your brother.”

Sherlock in response wheezed, trying to make the words come but still finding himself rather disoriented. His head was throbbing, and he felt as if he were mostly aqueous, as if the pool had melted him into a puddle of pained goo. Hard shivers wracked his body, the beginnings of shock.

It was a while before Sherlock could manage to speak through the chattering of his teeth, but when he did it was a rasping croak that made Daniel wince at its roughness.

“J-John?”

“Alright, just asleep. He’s waking up though, figure it’s to do with that purple stuff you wanted us to stick in our arm.”

 

It was then that Sherlock glanced over, noticing the empty glass vial that lay discarded at his side. Forcing himself to blink away the burn of chlorine in his eyes, the detective made himself grip at his companion’s shoulders, determined to figure out Daniel’s state. Daniel, seeming to sense his question was quick to reassure.

“We’re alright Holmes, seriously. John’s still out of it but with how weak I’m feeling, he’s likely gonna make a comeback soon enough.”

 

It was then that Sherlock’s gaze flickered over Daniel’s features, taking in the wan smile and dark eyes. The soldier looked at Sherlock as if he were memorizing the world around him, or perhaps waiting for a death knell. The detective’s mouth felt dry, and through the concussion that was worming its way through his brain he put two and two together.

“You’re starting to fade.”

“It’s… it’s slow.” Daniel murmured, passing a tired hand over his face. Sherlock found himself leaning forward, tipping John’s chin up towards the light, checking for pupil response automatically. “It feels like it’s going to take a while, but I can definitely feel the difference. I’m… less here, more of a shade. A ghost.”

 

Sherlock saw the fear that flickered in Daniel’s eyes, carefully controlled but there nonetheless.

“It’s working, then.” He murmured, and with Daniel’s slow nod Sherlock felt an overwhelming amount of relief mixed with a strange pang of something else. He looked at the soldier’s face, the lines of John’s eyes so familiar, now drawn in resignation.

“Aye, it’s working.” He murmured lowly “Though I don’t know when we’ll all fade. Feels like I’ll be first, though.”

 

Daniel looked down at his hands then, and the twisting feeling in Sherlock’s chest became a bothersome knot. It took him a moment to recognise it for what it was, and when he did the apology did not come easily to his lips: It was black guilt. Guilt, and strange loss.

His lips parted, though what he was going to say was drowned out by the distant shriek of sirens. As it was, Daniel never let him finish. The man was already on his feet, John’s warm words in his mouth, mingled with a Scottish accent that to Sherlock had become nearly familiar.

“Up you get then, Holmes. The worst and best I think, is yet to come.”

 

****

Sherlock was discharged from the hospital a few days after being treated for a mild concussion and drowning. During those few days, the detective regained some of his strength, and no longer felt like a kitten that had been tossed into the Thames one time too many.

 

John was also taken in at least in name, Daniel fronting until sleep inevitably took over, and the army doctor succumbed. The doctors determined that he had minimal injuries in spite of everything. Mycroft’s influence managed to bully the nurses into having Sherlock placed in the same room, the detective deducing that upon waking his friend would be disoriented. The elder Holmes left Sherlock with notes of Henry Knight’s recovery, as well as a few parting words towards his brother.

_“The next few years, Sherlock, will likely be rough. Do be delicate for once.”_

He rather hit the nail on the head, it seemed.  

 

The first time John woke, the man could remember nothing of the pool incident. He woke screaming from a nightmare, flashes of trauma and sounds and colours mingling in front of his vision and disorienting him. Sherlock’s voice had only just managed to cut through the miasma of panic, forced as he was to be in bed. John, openly panting in fear and shaking, had barely been able to articulate his fear.

“You were- we were drowning. _M-Moriarty-”_

“It’s alright now, John. It’s ok. I’m here.”

Sherlock watched as those pale eyelashes fluttered, unconsciousness swiftly returning to John once more. He longed to reach out, to touch those fingers that twitched in distress. The detective instead made do by opening Henry’s file, hungrily absorbing all the knowledge he could about the assimilation of personalities, and how it would affect John’s future.

 

****

**_Subject: Henry Knight_ **

**_Weeks 1-15, Notes:_ **

 

_Subject has shown signs of assimilating their branching personalities, although it is still in the early phases. Subject has shown early signs of remembering their past memories, as well as increased irritability and aggression. There is also signs of past triggers causing more adverse reactions that previously when the two personalities were split. This coincides with PTSD patients, and is likely due to remembering trauma._

 

Sherlock’s discharge from hospital was a celebratory affair on all sides. John had refused to leave his side upon waking and being explained the situation, and so the two hadn’t been free of hospitals and nurses and check-ups for several weeks now. They both chafed to be back at **_221 B_ ** in truth, and their friends seemed to share their sentiments. Molly, Lestrade, Mike Stamford and Mrs Hudson among others had all sent their affections and get-well cards, Greg’s making John’s face twist into a weak laugh that had been like the sun peeking out through grey cloud. It had made Sherlock’s heart lift a little, as the past few days his friend had done little more than fuss over him.

 

Still, Sherlock noticed that John had been quieter than usual, and though normally he’d merely deduce the reason, he found himself trying to avoid looking too closely. Perhaps it was because a small part of him felt that if he did so, John might stop the gentle touches he seemed to be favouring as of late.

 

The detective found his companion to be incredibly tactile during their hospital stay. Far from complaining, Sherlock rather found he enjoyed the soft kisses upon his forehead and the gentle fingers that would find their way to his nape or his curls.

It would be perfect, if it didn’t feel like John was performing said actions out of a sense of guilt. The worried look upon the man’s face was infuriating and concerning, and Sherlock couldn’t look at it too long before he wanted to shout at the man to stop being so incredibly dull. John’s appetite had also waned as of late, and all in all it made John look pale and somehow fragile. It was a look that seemed completely out of place on his face, and Sherlock wished not for the first time that he had the ability to actually read minds instead of just guess. For guessing at _anything_ to do with John’s health and wellbeing was completely abhorrent.

 

Their flat was very much as it had been before they left, though Mrs Hudson’s fluttering about certainly meant that it was a tad cleaner. Sherlock politely put up with the fussing for a while, but as the hours went on it was clear that John was beginning to flag under the stimulation. The army doctor was slumped into his chair, and there were dark circles under his eyes that made the detective suspect that John had pretended to sleep more often than not while in the hospital. Finally Sherlock managed to herd their landlady towards the door, not unkindly waving her off until she finally patted his cheek and went away.

 

The closing of the door was like a balm, and soothing silence replaced the chatter. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see John’s shoulders visibly slump in relief, head lolling downwards as if he could scarcely bear to hold it up. The man’s hands came to his temples, and Sherlock watched as John kneaded at his own scalp for a minute before deducing quietly.

“You’ve been getting headaches.”

John smiled slightly, though it was more of a grimace, truth be told.

“Nothing gets past you.”

“Do you want anything?” Sherlock made towards the kitchen, already intent on hunting down the kettle and some ibuprofen. The stomp of his shoes on the floor sounded loud in the flat, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the exhaustion in his companion’s voice.

“I’d just like to sleep, I think.”

 

The detective’s feet found him in front of John, almost crouching into his space. In an uncharacteristically soft tone, Sherlock spoke even as one hand came to cup John’s cheek. Sherlock could feel the thrum of his friend’s pulse under the pads of his fingers, butterfly-beats.

“That can be arranged” He murmured quietly, helping John to stand.

 

It was strange, how small someone could appear to be when they leaned against another.

Together, Sherlock lead them to their bedroom.

 

****

The nightmare came that night, and Sherlock had almost expected it. He was a light sleeper to begin with, and with John’s sounds of distress he was awake before he fully knew it, sitting up and shrugging the covers off himself.

 

John was twisted in his side of the sheets, the covers ensnaring rather than warming. The man’s face was twisted into an expression of agony, and low whimpers seemed to tear their way out of John’s throat, hoarse and rasping. Sherlock found the sight twisted something in his ribs, unsure of what memories John was reliving. It could be deduced only when the detective hazarded a touch to the man’s shoulder.

 

Sherlock didn’t catch John in time, as the man all but threw himself bodily away from the contact. John fell off the bed with a thunk, but he did not stay there long. Instead in a military-trained fashion, he rolled to his feet, eyes unseeing but voice harsh and guttural as he barked orders with a snarl.

 _“This is Watson requesting medical aid, coordinates five five…”_  The muttering broke then into another language, one that Sherlock identified after a moment as Dari. It was very clear then just where John thought he was, and Sherlock found his hands raised in a clear sign of surrender, even as he inched forward.

 

“John…”

The detective noted how John clutched at his shoulder, as if trying to stem the bleeding from a wound that was long ago healed. He also noted how John’s eyes tracked him with his movement, aware but not entirely lucid. Hyper-vigilance had always been an issue, but now as Sherlock moved towards him he saw it come into full fruition. Instantly John’s back was to a wall, covering vulnerability even as he assessed Sherlock as a threat. Yet there was a glimmer of something in John’s eyes, a sort of hazy recognition that something in this scenario was not quite right.

“A civilian?” John murmured as if to himself, then hissed at an imaginary pain and clutched at his shoulder. The request for back-up aid came again, and Sherlock quickly tried to anchor John back to reality, making sure not to crowd his friend and instead remain on the bed. The detective knew how John reacted poorly to confrontation.

“John, I want you to look around you. What do you see? No sand… no desert. Look at your shoulder, John. It hurts but it doesn’t look wounded, does it?”

 

Sherlock watched as John blinked slowly, seeming to absorb his words (or at least attempting). With microscopic movements, John’s gaze flicked towards his shoulder, the floor. Sherlock could see the soldier in the man cataloging the hardwood floor, as well as the lack of a wound. When John spoke again, it was a trembling sound that seemed to make the world freeze over.

“I’m… I’m.” He stuttered, and then those blue eyes widened as they looked at Sherlock in recognition.

 

It was then the detective thought it was safe enough to move forward, and he was lucky he did. In the next moment John was falling forward, trembling in the aftermath of what could only be shock. Sherlock’s strong arms caught the soldier before he could fall face-first, holding John’s head against his chest so that the man could smell the soap Sherlock used, feel the texture of the worn sleepshirt he wore.

That night, John quietly told Sherlock that Daniel had disappeared from his psyche, that he could feel it. Sherlock stroked his friend’s hair, and listened in silence as John recounted in a detached voice the pain he had felt when he had been shot and left to die in Afghanistan.

 

Eventually, Sherlock rose to grab the midnight-coloured duvet, wrapping it around them both on the bedroom floor to ward off the chill. John didn’t speak again, but he tucked his face against Sherlock’s shoulder in such a way that the detective found he didn’t have to. John was clutching to him too hard for his silent plea to be ignored.

_Stay._

So, Sherlock stayed.

 

****

**_Weeks 16-31_ **

_Subject has shown increased anger, often followed by acts of physical violence. It is noted that this is a normal progression, and that we theorised as much that it would occur. As the personalities mesh, past emotions resurface. Anger has been suppressed most of the Subject’s life, thus with the assimilation it has been brought back to the surface._

 

Things got better for a while, and after a time of adjustment, John seemed to improve. He laughed a little more, ate some of what Sherlock ordered (because even if the detective was determined to be helpful, he couldn’t cook to save his life) and made an effort to go outside for long walks. It was as if John was attempting to make an effort especially since the nightmares, doing his best to appear normal if not coping.

Sherlock found himself relaxing for the first time in nearly a month, half-hopeful despite himself that perhaps the worst had passed.

 

It was a case that triggered it, as the detective later realised. Hindsight was twenty/twenty, of course. Sherlock had been chasing down a serial rapist, as John had been given the go-ahead to once more follow him on investigations. Though the detective had been cautious of exposing his partner to too much info on the case, there was a fine line between caring and coddling that John quite simply refused to let the detective cross. Stubborn and obstinate, John pushed through the hell that was this investigation with mule-headed intent. He determinedly followed, trusted firearm hidden in his coat and a grim smile on his face each time Sherlock linked a new puzzle piece together.

Then there was a fourth victim, and unlike the others, it was a young boy. More specifically, a child of twelve named Scott Roth.

 

Scott (Scottie, as most called him) had round cheeks and big green eyes, and he looked out at the world as if he had seen far too much far too young. He had a gap tooth that showed when he smiled, which was seldom these days.

He also had a large, purpling bruise where his attacker had assaulted him before going further.

Sherlock was not prone to emotion, but the case had taken on if possible an uglier pattern, one he did not notice until now. The victims were getting younger.

Beside him, John looked at Scottie, something simmering just underneath the surface as the man’s left hand trembled before closing into a tight fist.

 

****

Sherlock guessed the address of the man’s house, but it was John that got to him first. Refusal to call Lestrade usually gave Sherlock time to get his own answers, but for the first time the detective realised that there could be a fatal drawback to such a choice.

 

He did not realise what John was about to do until his companion was lunging for the rapist’s (one George Hewey) throat, face twisted into a snarl of unbridled rage. With a shout, both men went down like a tonne of bricks, Sherlock left to try and pull John away from the attacker, which was next to impossible.

John was small, but he was military-trained and vicious in a fight. What was more, he did not appear to care that Sherlock’s voice was getting increasingly higher in his ear with stress. Like a train going full-throttle with no breaks, his fist raised again and again, landing squarely into George’s stomach. Each strike, Sherlock could swear he could feel bones creak with its force.

 

The detective only managed to drag John away, but he could not control John’s voice as it shouted. It was filled with an anger that made the man’s frame tremble, and it was rough and snarling like a dog’s.

 _“He deserves it! He hurt him, he_ **_hurt_ ** _him! He deserves every single punch and more!”_

 

George, lying on the floor unmovingly but alive, didn’t really seem to be in a position to defend himself. Sherlock, feeling not particularly charitable, made no move to do so.

When John finally slumped against him in defeat, Sherlock nearly didn’t hear the exhausted whisper. As it was, he did.

“He _hurt_ me.”

“I know.” Sherlock finally panted into John’s ear, and the words seemed to be the final straw.

 

John screamed, and it was a sound built of rage and grief and sorrow. Sherlock, holding him tightly and closing his eyes against the sound, felt almost inclined to join in.

“I know. _I know.”_

 

****

Conrad’s Welsh voice muttered in Sherlock’s ear, apologising in the dark.

“We got you in trouble.”

Sherlock hadn’t been asleep, curled as he was up on the other side of the bed. He hadn’t slept in a while, truthfully. He didn’t turn around as he replied, but he felt the warmth of John’s body, pressed against his spine.

“It’s nothing I haven’t done before.”

 

A moment of silence, and the detective almost wondered if Conrad had already vanished. Sherlock felt rather than saw the arm that curled itself about his hip, holding him in a tentative embrace. Breath tickled against his ear.

“You won’t do the same. You won’t hurt us. All these years, and we find the one that won’t hurt us.”

The detective blinked, surprised as he felt a burning feeling at the back of his throat. His voice was a whisper.

“How do you know? I feel like I am already.” It was true, too. Sherlock didn’t know what to do, how to help. There was no therapy for strange government experiments, and even if there was John likely wouldn’t wish to participate. There was just patching up problems, attempting to stop the bleeding of a fatal wound with a bandage.

 

By way of answer, Conrad sighed very deeply against his ear.

“I’m tired, Sherlock. So tired of protecting John from things that hurt him.”

Sherlock’s fingers found John’s against his hip, linking together and squeezing. The detective’s voice was raspy in the dark.

“So sleep.” The unsaid didn’t need to be uttered, that Sherlock would do his best from now onwards to do the protecting when needed. That John would do the same for him.

A whisper of breath, long and exhaled.

“Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

John fell back asleep, and after a while, so did Sherlock.

 

****

**_Week 32-46_ **

_Subject’s mood is improving, due to increased stabilisation of personality and function. The subject describes a joy for life again, and a zest for living. The subject also describes regret however, at quote “losing so much time”. Subject feels rushed, frenzied. Suspected mania._

 

“Sherlock… who am I?”

Sherlock looked up at John from where he had been sitting on the sofa, surrounded by four separate laptops. Perhaps, John reflected, the detective wasn’t the best individual to ask this question. Still, he could feel Sherlock’s gaze pinned to the back of his neck, a familiar presence even as he kept himself busy rummaging through the fridge. There were body parts in there that needed to be disposed of before safe consumption of food could happen. Then there was the dishes, and the floor was a mess due to that soap-based experiment…

A rustle of movement, then Sherlock was quite suddenly in his general vicinity. John could feel the warmth emanating from his partner, and it was a live and suddenly precious thing.

 

It was without thinking he leaned into it, stepping back from the fridge and allowing Sherlock to wrap long, skinny arms around him like some kind of massive cat draping itself over furniture.

“You’re John Hamish Watson.” Sherlock murmured “Captain of the fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, army doctor and partner to Sherlock Holmes: that’s me, by the way.”

John smiled at that, tilting his head up to look at the detective. Sherlock’s curls made a halo of dark about his face, and the crooked grin he gave John made him appear younger somehow, more boyish.

 

It was without thinking that John leaned upwards, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s lips. Still, the detective’s reaction implied that it was far more than John liked to pretend to make it out to be. The fact was, John had yet to instigate anything other than chaste touch and gentle kisses (and no where near the mouth) and though the detective had never complained, to do such a thing now without prompting caught Sherlock a bit like a rabbit between crosshairs.

 

Which was why the detective was rather unprepared when John suddenly tugged on the silk-blue bathrobe he was wearing, playfully yanking it away so that Sherlock was exposed in their kitchen, naked as the day he was born. The detective let out a rather undignified yelp at the cold, and John’s laugh was bright and infectious, waving the blue bathrobe like a military flag. Sherlock stood for a moment, mouth open and cheeks flushed with youthful indignation. John thought to himself he had never seen a lovelier sight, the blush crawling prettily along the man’s collar-bones and chest.

It only lasted a second before the expression smoothed over into mischievous and calculating.

 

John was off like a shot even as Sherlock lunged, whooping with a delight and a lightness in his chest that he had never felt before. It glowed warm and vibrant, like a small sun had decided to take up residence inside of his chest.

It only seemed to expand when Sherlock finally managed to catch him behind the leather chair, both of them toppling down to the floor, breathless and wrestling and laughing.

 

It ended with them somehow kissing, and though John’s memories, his trauma still lingered, he found that this he could do. This gentle, playful, intimate kind of touch that was so far removed from anything he had come to associate sex or relationships with. It was new, and though it didn’t evolve past kissing, it was wonderful.

Seeing Sherlock’s face as they parted, flushed darkly pink and eyes dark with desire and love, certainly didn’t seem to mind.

 

That night, the detective woke to an empty bed, and the sound of a guitar floating quietly in the air. Listening, Sherlock had to roll his eyes slightly at the melodrama of it all. Mozart’s Requiem. Still, he listened to its melody, even as over time it transformed into something more hopeful, light and free. Sneak played well into the morning, and when John finally came to bed, Sherlock had been lulled to sleep with a Brahms Lullaby. Curling up into the blankets and pressing his nose against the detective’s shoulder, John closed his eyes and wondered to himself if all that he had been through was the tradeoff for such happiness.

He must have been mad, because if the answer was yes, then he’d live through it all again just for a chance to be in this bed, with this particular brilliance at his side.

 

****

Being shot hurt more than Sherlock would have guessed, admittedly. In past experiments (all theoretical of course) he had imagined it would be an intense, but localised sort of pain. He hadn’t accounted for the way the human body often dealt with injury by radiating agony throughout the person’s very bones. He also hadn’t accounted for a bullet wound to be so close to his lungs.

It made breathing a bit of a challenge, in retrospect.

 

It was both better and somehow worse, that John was with him. Better because Sherlock knew where he was (Above him, shouting his name and desperately trying to stop the bleeding) and worse because John’s features were crumpled with fear.

“You can’t die on me.” Sherlock could vaguely hear through the ringing in his ears. John looked like he was shouting, but it felt as if it was from a thousand miles away. “You listen to me, Holmes. You _can’t_ die on me!”

 

Their attacker had been a petty thief, but he had been unexpectedly armed. Sherlock could sort of remember the chase, though the pain was more immediate and real to his mind. As it was, he could barely make out that not all of the blood on John’s hands and face was his own, and it made a distant pang of worry shoot through him. His lips felt chapped and slow, but he must have managed to somehow ask. John’s features darkened, and his teeth were bared even as he pressed harder down on his wound.

“Unconscious. If you die, _I’ll kill him._ ”

 

Well, Sherlock very well couldn’t die then. Not with John’s features flickering into something distinctly reptilian and Moriarty-like, and not if it would mean that John would allow himself to be thrown in jail. Unfortunately, the detective’s body seemed to have other ideas. It was with the distant sound of John screaming down a phone for an ambulance that the shock began to settle in, and Sherlock began to seize.

 

****

Moriarty left, but John’s left hand continued to tremble in his lap, even as he waited for Sherlock outside the surgery. The echo of a voice that was at once his and not his own whispered in his ear.

 _Staying alive. That’s what we do best, isn’t it Johnny? Too bad others don’t have the same kind of luck. People don’t realise, I’m a part of you. I’ll_ **_always_ ** _be a part of you._

 

****

It was several weeks after the hospital incident that John and Sherlock found themselves back and the flat, and even longer before John deemed Sherlock ready to leave his bed. As a result, the detective’s restlessness had lead John to nearly smothering his partner with a pillow more than once.

It was decided that as soon as the detective could stand, John would be dragging him outside for some mandatory fresh air. If he didn’t, the army doctor rather feared for the state of Mrs Hudson’s walls.

 

Regent’s park was nice though the day was cloudy, and not overly crowded like a part of John had feared. The air was cool, and he breathed deeply even as Sherlock trudged beside him, muttering to himself grouchily about mandated exercise and “being put out in the sun like some kind of potted plant”. John cheerfully ignored his complaints, instead choosing to watch as dog-walkers had their pets chase after frisbees and balls, small children playing football or chasing after their parents.

 

The pair of them eventually seated themselves onto a bench, Sherlock still grumbling but less so than he had been before. In front of them was a small pond, and ducks swam back and forth searching for bread crumbs. John watched them even as Sherlock took out his phone to check for signal, feeling a contentedness he hadn’t felt in a long time seep into his bones.

 

There was a small child, playing alongside the pond’s edge. With her father, she chased the ducks happily, small shoes tapping on the ground with the haste of her small footsteps. She laughed as her dad chased after her, brown curls bobbing in the breeze. She was carefree, and utterly and completely enchanted with the animals and her family around her. John guessed her to be about eight.

The abuse had already started then, for him. Abruptly, he had to bite his tongue, hard enough that he tasted copper. Best not to linger too long in front of dark doors, he knew that much by now.

 

John didn’t realise he was watching, not until Sherlock’s voice broke him delicately out of his thoughts.

“You’re distressed.” The quiet deduction caused John to instinctively shake his head no, hesitating a moment before he carefully tried to explain.

“Not… no. Not distressed so much as…” He trailed off, trying to find the words. His brows furrowed in determination. “I’m. Regretful.” John finally sighed, eyes closing. “So much of my childhood was filled with blank spots, and a part of me wishes it would stay that way. My memories… I never got to experience, what it was like to just be a kid. It was taken from me… and with my memories returning, I can’t pretend it wasn’t any more.”

 

John stared at his hands, not daring to glance at the detective. It felt like there was a frustrating block to his thoughts, somehow. An inexplicable weight that kept him from explaining seemed to sit sickly inside of his gut. He did not want to burden Sherlock with his pain, but it had been a long time since John had told anyone about any of his past, and now it seemed like the only real option. After all, Sherlock _knew_ John’s history, perhaps even better than _John._ What was there to fear?

Still, the detective seemed to be able to read something in John’s words, or at least enough to understand.

“Don’t be dull, you have every right to be bitter about it, angry even.” The detective’s voice softened minutely, and now John chanced a glance up at his partner. Those blue eyes he had come to love so much were trained to him, willing John to hold his gaze. “What matters, is that you also allow yourself to be _happy_ now _,_ selfishly so.”

John swallowed the tightness in his throat, leaning forward to kiss Sherlock along his temple.

“And you say you don’t have a heart.” He muttered thickly, laughing even as the detective sniffed offendedly. “You ruddy _liar.”_

 

****

That night, John and Sherlock played round after round of board games: Monopoly, Sorry!, card games and yes, Cleudo.

If John now and again switched personalities with a little girl that liked Miss Scarlet best and kissed Sherlock’s cheeks goodbye, well. They were the only two in **_221 B_ ** to witness it.

 

****

**_Week 47-61_ **

_Subject has fallen into a depressive state, nearly two months from original treatment. A marked lack of appetite, bouts of crying and suicidal ideation. Memories have almost been completely merged, and so the subject is in all likelihood reliving the aftermath of the trauma. Careful monitoring and regular therapy appointments are to be carried out to aid adjustment. However, we remain cautiously hopeful that the worst will soon be behind us._

 

What went up must eventually come down, and that is a law that often applies to human emotions. Good times were not a constant, and Sherlock had been waiting for the other shoe to drop at some time or another. He finds himself almost wishing it would happen sooner, not to cause John pain, but so that it might be dealt with.

 

It does come, the last of the memories, and Sherlock never really found out what triggered it. One moment, John was smiling and laughing across from him at the table over some news article or another, then next Sherlock is laughing alone. At first the detective didn’t notice, thinking John had gotten distracted by something. Yet as Sherlock raised his head, the glazed expression in John’s eyes sends a dropping sensation through the detective’s stomach.

 

The army doctor’s gaze is fixated on his own bare arms, where healed but still visible scars mar skin that never seemed to fully pale after time spent in Afghanistan. John looked at them contemplatively, distantly, as if he wasn’t quite sure he was seeing them clearly. It made Sherlock’s chest tighten, because that gaze soon slid to him, and John’s voice was deathly quiet as he admitted to remembering creating this damage.

 

That evening was quiet, as John abruptly left his meal on the table, stumbling as if in a dream to curl up on the couch in a twisted mockery of Sherlock’s usual moods.

Only this time, John wasn’t alone. This time, instead of all the other times when such a mood had hit John, such a memory, the army doctor found himself far from on his own.

For when he finally could manage to open his eyes, to sit up, a cup of tea waited for him on the table, still-warm. He had never talked about his past to anyone, could never remember it. Perhaps it was better that way?

Better not to burden another with the story, though it now itched under John’s skin, made him realise that there was a reason he had spent years physically destroying himself without even recalling it.

Physical hurt was easier, than this. Yet chancing a glance up at his partner, John knew without a shadow of a doubt that it was no longer an option.

 

Sherlock, making an effort not to seem like he was scrutinising too closely, looked up from the book he had been pretending to read. His voice was falsely casual.

“I’ve been told I’m not the greatest listener, but I’d be willing to try.”

He didn't want to, the thought alone made him feel ill. Yet Sherlock was looking at him,  _seeing_ him, and John found that the words that stuck themselves in his chest felt a little less difficult to express. 

And John, staring at his tea, took a considering breath and began.


	29. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and this is the end ^.^
> 
> Thank you so much to all of you that have kept up with this fic through the years, endured my early high school level writing, and enjoyed how this little story panned out :) It's been a ride, and ultimately I'm happy how it ended.
> 
> May you all have happy endings and new beginnings. 
> 
> (Smut down below and fluff~)

 

 

“Careful... _Careful!”_

John hissed, shooting Sherlock a glare. The detective for his part look rather offended, though it was a struggle to maintain the expression. After all, staying angry was a struggle when one was balancing an awkwardly-shaped end of a dresser. John settled for scowling up the flight of stairs at his partner, straining to keep his end of the heavy furniture upright.

 

Moving rooms had seemed like a good idea, until john remembered that Sherlock loathed (and was terrible at) manual labour. John had been nearly flattened a few times trying to bring some of his furniture down the stairs to their room, and most of it was due to the detective’s disconcerting habit of getting distracted at the most inopportune moments. They would be in the middle of lugging down John’s wardrobe, or perhaps his nightstand table (a ridiculously heavy oak thing that had come with the flat) and the detective’s phone would ding. Sherlock, despite being in the middle of keeping John from tumbling down the stairs would feel instantly compelled to answer it.

 

Twice, John had yelled at him for it.

Honestly, together for almost a year now and the detective still did things that made John question the man’s intelligence despite his apparent “genius”. Then again, John did suppose he wouldn’t have had it any other way.

 

****

Of course, then there were the times between cases and between moving furniture around that the _both_ of them got distracted. Mostly by each other. That aspect of their relationship still sometimes threw John, despite its frequent occurrence. He’d wander into the living room, or perhaps the kitchen, and Sherlock wouldn’t be doing anything out of the ordinary. He’d still yell at the television, still sulk on the couch if there was no case to be had or Lestrade was being particularly difficult. Yet John would look at him, and a wave of affection would well up unbidden.

 

Within moments, he’d find himself leaning into Sherlock’s space, craving the detective’s touch and feeling a longing to make contact, to claim and own and _be_ owned. Sherlock didn’t mind, in fact he seemed to revel in it. Who knew the detective could be _tactile_ , when he had someone he desired in mind?

 

The sexual side of things came more slowly, as expected given John’s past. Truth be told in the first couple of months, neither of them were completely sure John would ever be truly comfortable in that kind of situation. The memories from his childhood would rear up at the most unexpected things, and half the time they left scars that made John’s hands tremble and bile rise up to the back of his throat.

 

Eventually, the idea of a therapist was brought up again. This time, John reluctantly agreed, provided the person could be vetted by Mycroft’s people to be more suited to the circumstances than Ella. Meeting with Remi Fieldgrow was an experience that John found to be an unexpected blessing, the man adjusting horn-rimmed glasses before offering him a smile that made something in John’s chest loosen.

“So. Where would _you_ like to begin?”

 

Of course, that had been months ago, and John found over time that though the memories did not lessen, they became perhaps easier to bear. He no longer thought about it if he leaned towards Sherlock for a kiss, rarely thought about it if the kissing turned into warmth, into groping and togetherness and _more, please, can we-_

It was so different from any bad memory John held, and though the fear still sometimes left him drawing away, left him panting and cut off with an ill feeling of dread, it was becoming less and less.

 

This was what lead John to staring at the date after they moved the final piece of furniture down to Sherlock’s room, mentally tallying up his plan. January fourth. Two days from the detective’s birthday. Not that Sherlock had said anything, he seemed determined to pretend as if he had come into the world fully formed, already spouting deductions and trouncing about in his great coat. _A useless and trite date to remember._ Sherlock had said with a callous wave of his hand.

 

John was determined to make this year more memorable.

 

****

As it was, Sherlock woke on his birthday rather disappointed at first. This would be because as he stretched out his long arms he found only the lonely coolness of an empty bed, John nowhere to be found. This was not entirely out of the norm, for it was hard to break army habits and John rarely slept past seven AM. However, Sherlock felt a small pang of petulance, even though as far as he knew, John had no intention of commemorating the date.

 

Sherlock rose to his feet, drawing his blue dressing gown about him to ward off the chill that often permeated throughout the flat in the morning. Best to get on with the day then, and have a cup of tea and find his partner. His bare toes flexed against the hardwood as he stretched, joints popping in tandem before the detective made his way out into the kitchen.

However Sherlock stopped as a warm, cooking scent wafted past, causing him to pause in disbelief. It smelled like… well it smelled like _waffles._

 

Even stranger, Sherlock crept forward to find John _making_ them, humming a small tune to himself as he dropped a spoonful of batter into a waffle maker (And when did they acquire _that_ in the first place?). Feeling as though he had stepped into an alternate dimension, one which he and his partner lived a classically domestic lifestyle, Sherlock approached with the caution of a cat half-suspected they were going to be submerged in ice water.

 

John smiled upon as he turned and saw him, a hopelessly bright, toothy thing, and part of the detective melted just a little. He pretended it wasn’t the case, eyes narrowing in deductive reasoning. John was already dressed, and rather nicely at that. A clean, dark blue button-down and dark blue jeans offset the colour of his eyes, and his hair was combed (used the product Sherlock bought him in it, the scent was familiar and pleasing to the detective’s nose).

 

“Thought you might be up soon.” John laughed a little as Sherlock floated to his side, the detective pressing his nose into the join between neck and shoulder, inhaling greedily the mixed scents of _home_ and _food._ Sherlock all but purred in pleasure as a hand wandered up to his curls, stroking gently. “Hi there, Love.” John reached to turn the waffle maker off, sensing the mood shift even as Sherlock pressed closed lips to the flutter of his pulse.

“You cooked.” The detective rumbled in bewildered awe, strangely childlike in his deduction. Catlike eyes opened in slit wonderment, peering up at John in perplexion. “Neither of us _ever_ bother to cook. What’s more you cooked my _favourites._ ”

 

It was true, looking about the kitchen. John had made not only waffles, but had gone out of his way to go down to the market at some point, obviously. Fresh strawberries had been sliced up, rolled in sugar and awaiting placement onto said waffles. Whipped cream in a bowl, homemade had been left on the table (conspicuously absent of experiments for once).

“I moved them to the living room.” John answered in response to the direction of the detective’s gaze, grinning in that self-conscious way he had. “None of them seemed particularly life-threatening, so I took the risk.”

 _Brilliant human being._ Sherlock swore sometimes it hurt to look at John directly, he was so bright to him.

 

Humming, Sherlock’s voice dropped an octave even as he eyed the strawberries with hungry contemplation.

“Those could be brought to bed.” He murmured. John flushed, the detective’s voice rumbling right by his ear. He couldn’t help the interested flick of his tongue brushing across his lips, wondering what Sherlock’s lips tasted like when coated in sugar and fruit juice.

“They _were_ going to be for waffles. I _was_ planning on having us sit at an actual table, for once.” He accused. John could feel his partner’s smile, wicked and just the tiniest bit playful.

“Boring. Come to bed. I don’t know why you got dressed anyway.”

 

Sherlock leaned forward, gently tugging on the lobe of John’s ear with his teeth before skipping away and towards the bedroom. Long fingers scooped up the metal bowl of strawberries on their way.

After a few hazy moments of staring at the detective’s rather delectable arse, John blinked and made to follow.

The rest of the surprise could wait, he supposed. After all, he could always get dressed again later on.

 

****

Strawberries and snogging did in fact, go together rather well. In John’s humble opinion, it was definitely something he didn’t object to.

Sherlock’s lips when stained red were beautiful, and the sugar made everything somehow sweeter, gentler and soft until they very much weren’t. There was a point where soft, wet tongues became gentle nibbling, and aimless hands found goals.

 

John certainly found his, brushing against it in such a way that Sherlock paused in his goal of making a love bite on John’s neck to hiss in pleasure. It was a sound that made John’s pulse quicken, and the obvious evidence before him that he was not only wanted but welcome sent a peculiar heady rush of chemicals throughout his blood.

 

Sherlock beneath him was long and supine and heavy-lidded, staring up at John in clear want yet being so careful not to cage the man in his hold. It was clear from the blown look to his pupils that he had not been expecting John to go so far, and it was true that up until now John had always been careful to back down before things became to heated. Now however he quelled the momentary surge of anxiety, biting down on his lip and tentatively brushing past Sherlock’s erection again. He watched his partner arch subconsciously into the touch, a breathy sound of need passing his lips.

 

John pressed a kiss to said lips in response, tongue delving across the seam of Sherlock’s lower lip before snagging it between his teeth, sucking gently. In the process his hands reached up and in, delving past the pan’s pyjamas and into his boxers (plain cotton, a well-worn comfy pair it seemed). Warm, clean skin filled out quickly in John’s hand, and Sherlock’s hips began to struggle to keep still, the man clearly torn between wanting to rock into his partner’s hand and making sure they weren’t moving too quickly.

 

As the two of them parted for air with a wet gasp, Sherlock seemed to seize it as his opportunity  to ask. His eyes were half-wild with want, but he grabbed John’s wrist at his side that was being used as support. Sherlock’s voice was rough, but his expression was earnest despite his clear reluctance.

“We… we can stop. If you… if you need to. We can stop.” It sounded like such a thing might cause the detective to literally roll off the bed out of sexual frustration, but his stare made sure to John that the man was being honest. If he needed to stop, Sherlock would stop. John breathed deeply, overcome with a mixture of affection, lust and a kind of warmth that took him only a moment to identify.

_Happiness._

 

By way of reply, John sat up and removed his hand from Sherlock’s pants. The detective looked mildly heartbroken, but accepting. However that expression quickly melted away to surprise and undeniable eagerness as John tentatively asked.

 

“Actually… I was wondering if I could… if I…” He flushed, and that damnable tongue flicked out across his lower lip again. Sherlock could have cursed out loud, because in that moment, he guessed what was coming next. John shimmied lower, looking shyly up at Sherlock from beneath blonde lashes. “Can I… I’d like to have you. In my… in my mouth.”

The detective looked at him as if he were a complete and utter treasure, a choked noise coming from his mouth.

“Can you…” He started blankly, before his brain caught up with him and he sat up with a grunt.

Sherlock in that moment couldn’t get out of his pants quickly enough. He swore to himself that if it were possible, he could have levitated. It was such a firm agreement that it was almost comical.

 

It was enough to break the tension in the atmosphere, the two men laughing a little at the detective’s own delight. Sherlock, flushing in pleasure and rapidly becoming the lesser clothed of the two, couldn’t find it in himself to mind particularly that he was the object of mockery. Not when John’s mouth descended past the dark, neatly trimmed thatch of dark curls surrounding Sherlock’s cock, pressing a kiss to the shaft of it with shy greeting. The detective’s eyes fluttered with pleasure, and he watched as his lover took his time, testing the waters. His long hands settled for bunching in the sheets, not wanting to risk pushing John too far by touching his head.

 

John for his part, eyed Sherlock’s cock at first a bit like an experiment. It was long, though not abnormally so, and proportionate to Sherlock’s build. Uncircumcised, the head was dusky pink, the same shade as the dark flush that currently painted the detective’s collarbones and neck. John used one hand to stroke the shaft tentatively, and was pleased when he was rewarded with a breathy moan. Feeling a bit braver, he leaned forward, licking a stripe up and along Sherlock’s shaft. Upon coming to the head, John lingered, lapping gently at the leaking slit. It was a strong taste, but not altogether unpleasant. Just… very human, John supposed.

 

Sherlock shuddered, his brain shutting down to little more than _warm_ and _wet_ and _oh christ do I ever love you._

He scrabbled at the sheets, the combination of John’s hand and mouth upon him sloppy and clumsy but so _so_ good. It didn’t matter that his partner was rather inexperienced as a whole, because Sherlock wasn’t exactly a virtuoso at sex either. What made it good was the fact that John _trusted_ him enough to do this, that there was no one else on the planet that Sherlock could currently imagining enjoying this with. He cried out as John finally took him into his mouth, only a little.

Yet Sherlock thought that perhaps the man remembered some experiences more than he claimed, because in the next instant the man _sucked_ and pressed his tongue against the detective’s frenulum and Sherlock’s eyes rolled back.

 

John, mostly operating by feel, was pleasantly surprised as Sherlock let out a hoarse cry, his prick throbbing on his tongue. Getting the hang of it, then. He supposed it made sense that he was a quick learner, given what Sneak’s history had once been. He could tell that his lover was close, and going half on hazy memories but mostly on instinct John sped his ministrations, light but quick and in such a way that out of the corner of his eye he could see Sherlock’s toes curl in building climax.

 

Sherlock; for his part, felt his orgasm rush to meet him like a freight train. He was rising to the edge, and then he was suddenly plummeting into a wall of pleasure. He arched, back bowing, and he must have made some kind of noise because John _hummed,_ unintentionally prolonging the pleasure. The detective writhed, spilling into John’s mouth, and then later on the sheets as his partner moved away, stroking him through the aftershocks. Finally, Sherlock slumped back onto the bed, the last of his orgasm melting his limbs into compliant jelly. He stared up at the ceiling in a dead pant, hardly believing that what had just occurred had come to pass.

 

Eventually, John’s silhouette blocked his view of the ceiling, and the detective acted on instinct. He raised himself up onto his elbows, capturing the man’s lips in his own. John groaned in response, and his lips tasted like sugar and strawberries and _Sherlock_ and the detective growled, obscenely pleased at the notion. It was then he saw that John was still painfully hard and seemingly a bit too dazed to do much about it. The man was pressing his jean-clad erection against the mattress, rutting against it and whining in frustration even as he kissed Sherlock back. That wouldn’t do. Sherlock wasted no time in reaching for John’s belt, helping him shuck out of his trousers so that the detective could return the favour.

John’s cock was leaking copiously by the time Sherlock got a look at it, and it was hard and heavy and leaned just a little bit to the left. The detective grinned upon seeing it, enjoying the hazed look of ecstasy on John’s face as his spidery hands came to wrap about it.

 

“You like my voice.” Sherlock stated, and it was not a question. John’s breath hitched, and blue eyes focused on the detective’s face, a look of pained pleasure crossing his features. Sherlock deliberately let his voice drop, becoming whisper-soft and deep. _Impossibly_ deep. “You like when I need you, when I’m whining for you. You like when I’m _needy._ Cruel, in reality.”

 _“Sherlock,”_ John warned, or maybe plead. A strangled sound left his lips when in reply Sherlock twisted his wrist over the head of John’s cock. Sherlock leaned closer, until his lips were pressed to the seashell cup of his partner’s ear. He sped up his hand, stroking John until he was a taut bow, quivering along a line.

“You also like it when I _demand_ things from you. When I _need you._ I want you to come, John. I _need_ you to.”

 _“Oh.”_  John whimpered, pressing his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder and shuddering helplessly.

 

Sherlock hummed as he felt John spend over his hand, stroking him until the man’s thighs were shaking from the stimulation. The two of them sat like that for a while after, after a moment John’s hand reaching up, tightening in Sherlock’s curls. In response, the detective curled his limbs about the smaller man, compacting himself and John into a tight curl in the centre of the bed.

What was left of the strawberries were left, rather forgotten in the waking glow and the sound of John’s voice murmuring softly in Sherlock’s ear.

“Happy birthday, love.”

In response, Sherlock pressed a chaste kiss to John’s temple, blue eyes fluttering closed in deepest contentment at being still and present and _alive._

 

That is, until John later admitted that later on in the day he had booked Sherlock three uninterrupted hours in the morgue with the latest victim of a serial killer, courtesy of one Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade.

He then seemed unable to move fast enough, whinging at John for distracting him so effectively.

It was altogether rather halfhearted at best.

****

Two years together, and John set down his paper, looking up at Sherlock. The man was seated in his chair, the sunlight turning his hair shades of chocolate brown and cinnamon.

 

“I need a job.” John stated, as if to the flat, or perhaps the air inside of it. Sherlock for his part certainly didn’t reply, currently lodged as he was in a text on apiaries (somewhat deliberately). John sighed at his partner’s recalcitrance, fixing the man with a pointed look until the detective had no choice but to set the tome down. John’s voice was gentle, and he looked at Sherlock with kindness in his eyes. Far too gentle, in Sherlock’s mind. “I know we have the money, but I want… I want to _do_ something with my experiences. I’m ready, in fact I made _sure_ I was before I considered this. My past...I can’t let my past dictate my life any longer. I… I love following you, hell I _adore_ it. But…”

“You need something that is unequivocally yours. Something to claim from your childhood that’s positive.” The detective stated flatly, mouth pursed in distaste. Upon his partner’s nod, the detective’s figure hunched, defensive. “You have things that are yours.” Sherlock tried feebly, looking around the flat. It didn’t help that the skull was staring right at them. Also an experiment involving cat fur was currently sitting in the kitchen.

 

John made a tutting sound, merely fixing Sherlock with a small glare. The detective always seemed to wilt under such a look, it reminded him too much of his mother. Sherlock fidgeted in place, frowning in displeasured acceptance. It was probably the best John could hope for, even if the detective did make to go sulk on the couch.

“Go then. Apply to St Bart’s at a _plebeian_ position, like you’ve been meaning to.”

The barb was only mildly effective, considering the tense curve of the man’s spine lessened with a mere passing of John’s fingers through his halo of curls. His ring glinted, silver and gold in the afternoon sun pouring into **_221 B._ **

 

****

Sarah stepped into her office, staring at the resume laid out before her. Ex-soldier, army doctor. Seemed a bit overqualified, but this “John Watson” had seemed eager and willing to work. The nurse that had shown him in had described him as “Polite to a fault”, something Sarah couldn’t find enough of in people these days.

 

She opened the door, raising her head to greet the man she had decided already to give a chance. However, the person she saw made her draw up short. Memories from a few years now, of silver-blonde hair and blue eyes. Of scars. “Walter Johnson”, and yet apparently, not.

 

John Watson smiled on default, but upon meeting her eyes, a spark of vague recognition passed his features. His smile faded away slowly, and his hands came to fold themselves in his lap. His voice was light, awkward.

“Oh. Hello, again.”

“Hello.” Sarah murmured, looking at the man. It was very clearly him, although it was like holding up a pale shade against a newer, vivid painting. John Watson was miles healthier looking than the stranger she had bedded from the bar, the haunted and exhausted circles of his eyes faded, bringing out their nice shade. He also seemed to have put on a healthier amount of weight, and the lack of nicotine stains around his nails indicated he’d likely stopped smoking. 

Something in Sarah’s chest warmed, and she found herself giving the man a small, reassuring smile. “You’re looking better.” She said.

 

John looked at her, as if he wasn’t quite sure whether or not she meant what she said. Upon showing no guile or trickery, he seemed to allow himself the smallest of smiles.

“I’m feeling better.” He admitted, quietly.

“I’m glad.” Sarah found that she meant the words. She held up her hand, showing the bare ring finger. “Left my husband and things turned right around.”

 

He chuckled, shaking his head.

John’s voice was warm as he replied.

“That’s ironic, because I _found_ mine.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Black](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1269253) by [Devisama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devisama/pseuds/Devisama)




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